


These Forsaken Lands

by destielpasta



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Case Fic, Community: deancasbigbang, Domestic, Fallen Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, Light Horror, M/M, Mark of Cain, Mystery, Post-Episode: s09e18 Meta Fiction, Sexual Content, Souls, references to godstiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-09
Updated: 2014-10-09
Packaged: 2018-02-19 18:32:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 53,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2398568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destielpasta/pseuds/destielpasta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years after his run as God, Castiel leaves a small group of angels in Hannah’s care, returning to Kansas with every intention of going to the bunker. He finds himself in the small town of Colton, just passing through to gather strength, his ever-fading stolen grace weakening him slowly. Colton isn’t like other towns, however, and whispers follow him wherever he goes. A stranger confronts him, showing him a community damaged to it’s core by a God that visited and never came back; a God that disappeared into a river without a trace. Evil plagues Colton even years after Castiel’s visit, its inhabitants unwilling to come clean about what truly happened. Castiel calls upon Dean for help, finding truth in an old pile of newspapers and new faces willing to give him a second chance to make things right. A post-9.18 story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This fic would not have been possible without the contribution of many people, and the dedication goes several ways.
> 
> First, to my lovely betas:  
> The thoughtful and lovely [Cloud](http://queerpumpkins.tumblr.com/), for focusing on the details and finding those spots that needed a little tweaking,  
> The magnanimous and witty [Cass](http://atinywhale.tumblr.com/) , for giving me the honest truth but also squeeing at all the right parts,  
> And third to my wonderful sister Lauren, for braving the world of slash fiction for me and winning the award for most creative comments. 
> 
> Next, to my fabulous tumblr friends (all fabulous writers in their own right check them out!):  
> [Em](http://alullabytoleaveby.tumblr.com/), for always cheering me on even when my word counts were pitiful,  
> [Musey](http://musingsdeme.tumblr.com/), for always having an open ear,  
> [Max](http://fluffythundr.tumblr.com/), for being the sweetest,  
> [ceeainthereforthat](http://ceeainthereforthat.tumblr.com/), for always talking me down when it came to writerly problems.
> 
> To my wonderful artist Sophia, aka [ensign-cannonfodder](http://ensign-cannonfodder.tumblr.com/) for not only beautiful and effective illustrations, but for amazing discussions and an endless supply of cat picture swaps. [Art Masterpost](http://ensign-c.livejournal.com/839.html) (Beware for spoilers)
> 
> And lastly, to my best friend [Maggie](http://summersteve.tumblr.com/), for hanging out with me in this story from the beginning, and doing all the things best friends do (putting up with me etc.). And yes, you're allowed to read the end now.
> 
> (If you've read this whole note congrats) I hope you enjoy These Forsaken Lands, written for the 2014 Deancas Big Bang Challenge.

 

Hannah asks Castiel if the Warehouse is the right space for them. She asks him once in the car, and then twice as they walk through the abandoned building. She takes notes and makes a quick sketch of the floor plan while the other three angels just observe, waiting for orders.

Castiel waits until they disperse, sent on an errand by Hannah, before turning to her.

“I can’t stay,” he says, pursing his lips as her face falls.

“I thought as much,” she says, hugging a clipboard to her chest. “How long?”

“I don’t know,” he runs a hand through his hair, knowing she watches the gesture with confusion, “I’m not a leader.”

“You say that but--”

“You can take care of them for now,” he interrupts, “I have faith in you."

Castiel feels the ghost of shame pass over him as her chin lifts and her shoulders square forward. He knows just the words to motivate angels, if not much else.

He’s out the door and in his car within the hour, staring ahead at the highway. There’s a blue sign to his right, labelled ‘bus station.’ He looks down at the steering wheel, knowing that his car makes him easier to track.

He leaves it in a 24-hour Walmart parking lot, pocketing the key in his trench coat.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Castiel stirs his coffee, the tarnished silver spoon clinking against the sides of the mug. The coffee is all but gone, and only dregs remain.

Far from the best coffee he’s ever tasted, it’s even more vile cold. His waitress swipes a rag over the linoleum counter less than fifteen feet from him, withholding her gaze as if the task requires immense concentration. She wears her hair swept back and her bangs short, keeping her vision unimpaired, and yet the more he leans forward the less she seems to see him.

Not that the caffeine really provides him with any real relief anymore; it’s the taste he craves. His plate of half-finished pie, unlike the waitress, stares back at him, as cloying and syrupy in appearance as it had been in taste. His stolen grace refuses to allow him the simple enjoyment of food, but he wonders if Dean would have found the pie distasteful as well.

“More coffee?”

The waitress stands over him, looking out the window and over his shoulder and down at the table and anywhere but him.

“Yes, thank you,” he answers, scooting the cup towards her for easier access.

He notices the tremor in her hands as she lowers the full pot, splashing drops of coffee onto the table before filling the cup. He narrows his eyes and prods at the surface level of her hands, finding no trace of arthritis or nerve damage.

He tries to catch her eye and smile; he’s found that people enjoy his smile, but she just mops up the spilt coffee without a word and hastens back behind the counter. The whole interaction had occurred without eye contact.

Castiel looks down at his new coffee, feeling disappointed. He takes a sip, foregoing the milk and sugar this time around. It’s lukewarm. Bitter. He had hoped it would soothe some of the dryness in his throat, but it remains hot and itchy from the road dust.

Wait staff had always been kind to him, finding his obvious eccentricities an endearing quality. He knew that it wasn’t a requirement and that maybe the waitress (Kelsey had been her name, he remembers) was just having a bad day. He had often been told that he has a ‘kind face,’ and often made people laugh. This woman had avoided his interaction completely, from the moment he had stepped into the diner.

“Can I get you anything else?”

Kelsey stands in front of him again, fiddling with her notepad and staring out the window, hands still shaking.

“No, thank you Kelsey--”

She slaps the bill on the table before he can finish, shuffling away as he swallows his words. He looks down at the bill, fumbling in his pocket for what little cash he has.

2 C. Coffee: $2.50 + tax= $2.61

No free refills either. He leaves four crumpled singles and hurries out, shoving his hands through the sleeves of his coat.

* * *

 

 

He’s just passing through. On his way home. Taking a break from his business trip. Recently got out of a bad relationship and looking for some space. He invents countless stories for humans who ask for them; bus drivers and ticket sellers and waitresses with thick wads of chewing gum snapping between their teeth. They all the ask the same thing: “Where are you coming from?”

He lies every time, saying New York or Baltimore or Cincinnati or anything that trips off his tongue at a moments notice. In reality, he’s only circling the outer edge of Kansas, listening for news. Bank signs tell him that the name of this town is Colton, just over two-hundred miles from Lebanon.

He wanders through the streets after paying for his coffee, letting his feet drag against the sidewalk with his hands shoved into his pockets. He knows it’s a human pose, and helps him to blend in. People tend to watch you when you look like have a place to go.

The muscles underneath his eye begin to twitch after a few blocks, from his vessel’s exhaustion or from his own stress, he can’t say. His feet make heavy noises on the pavement. Taking a rest might be a good idea, and it’s not as if he has anywhere to be.

He ducks into an alleyway, finding a spot of exposed brick wall to lean against, thankful that the dumpster beside him sits almost empty. He knows he shouldn’t feel exhaustion, and that his muscles shouldn’t ache. He tilts his head back and closes his eyes, resting against the cool brick and trying not to overthink it.

Sparks fly behind his eyelids and he sighs, releasing heat and stress built up under his sternum. His grace is scratchy, burning against his vessel and clouding his mind. He lets his mind wander, thinking of the waitress with the shaking hands and the way Hannah had looked at him before he had left them, like he was a leader, a person to be trusted.

_Don’t forget the lessons you’ve learned, Castiel._

His eyes fly open at the sound of the voice, knees bending and blade dropping into his hand on instinct. His eyes flick around, but the alley is dark, without any movement save for the light breeze whistling through the tight space. He’s alone.

The voice had been so close; only a whisper in his ear. He stows the blade, his sore body protesting when he walks towards the light of the street.

He makes his way away from the downtown, finding himself in a dimly lit residential area. Most of the curtains are drawn in for the night, the shadows of residents making their way around in yellow light and shadows.

He hears a screen slam just a ahead of him, and Castiel looks up, curious. A woman drags a bulging trash bag down her short walkway to the street, her labored breath coming out as puffs of fog in the night chill. She mutters under her breath, cold and seething and just loud enough for Castiel to hear.

“Lazy, _ungrateful_ thing. Just like he was, believin’ in fairy tales still. I’ll be _damned_ if I--”

She freezes after tossing the garbage into the pale, having just caught sight of him. They lock eyes for a moment before her’s glaze over with fear and disbelief.

“You-- how-- what d’you think you’re doing, dressed like that?” she swallows, her throat working hard and betraying the fear in her voice.

Castiel doesn’t respond, taking a closer look at her, searching for psychic tendencies. She comes up clean; just a human woman, looking at him as if she knew he was a monster.

But maybe not? Any woman would fear a strange man standing outside her house. He takes his hands out of his pockets, showing her that they’re empty.

“I apologize, I mean no harm--”

“Get the hell out!” she yells, wringing a hand at him. “Get the hell outta Colton, if you know what’s good for you!” She drops the lid on her trash can with a _clang_ and hurries back up her walkway to her house, slamming the screen door behind her.

The street is quiet after that, despite their loud interactions. Castiel lowers his hands, still up and tense in surrender. Nothing can harm him, but the woman’s fear still lingers in the air. Looking around, he tries to recall whether he's been here before, finding the streets familiar in a strange way, as if he had once travelled past them at a high speed. Still, there's no sign of demon or angel activity.

He shoves his hands back into his pockets, making his way down the street again with a new sense of purpose. Apprehension churns in his stomach, he thinks that heading to the bus station might be a good plan.

Logically, he knows that as an angel with millions of years of tactical training, it would be difficult to harm him. His vessel reacts as if he is without grace, however, and adrenaline picks up his already rapid heartbeat. He can’t afford to be found here; by demons or angels with malevolent purposes alike.

“Shut up!”

“Listen to me--”

Another pair of pair of voices distract him from his thoughts, this time behind him. They’re pitched low and are accompanied by the rustling of paper.

“It’s not him--”

“Look, can we just get out of here? I don’t care if you don’t believe--”

“Anyone could have that fucking coat--”

Castiel stops walking, cutting off the voices immediately. He turns around on his heel, revealing the speakers: two young men, looking scarcely out of their teens, clutching bottles in paper bags. Fear pales their faces.

“Please, I’m no danger to you,” Castiel says, willing the words to be true. “I’m just passing through.”

One of the boys makes a choking sound in his throat before turning around and running, his friend following close behind. The paper bag makes a shattering noise when it falls, wetness spreading on the sidewalk. They round the corner without looking back.

He hears another creaking sound behind him, followed by a slam, and he turns around to see a woman leaning against the frame of the house, tapping the ash off a burning cigarette with a practiced flick of her fingers.

“Stupid kids,” she mutters, squinting at the boys’ fading silhouettes. She tucks a stray wisp of greying hair behind her ear, folding her thin arms over her chest. “You look like a lost dog.”

Castiel fidgets, uncomfortable with the way she looks him up and down, not a trace of fear in her eyes. He looks down at himself, trying to discern what her harsh appraisal means. He had taken great care to to choose neutral clothing now that he had grace again. Bland colors, generic cuts. A bit boring, but not too shabby, if he was correct in his thinking.

“Psshh,” she laughs to herself, “Not what I meant, kid.”

He cocks his head in confusion, unsure if he had if fact said his last thought out loud. Before he can ask, however, she shrugs, a smirk still on her face.

“You wanna come inside?”

Castiel looks around at the abandoned street, darkening as house after house extinguishes their lights and lowers their shades. Suspicious eyes look through their mini-blinds, watching him and the woman before disappearing.

“That’s very kind,” he says, turning back to her. “Thank you.”

She exhales the last of the smoke before grinding the cigarette underneath the toes of her boot. “Don’t mention it,” she says before beckoning him up the stoop.

The house seems smaller on the inside when he steps over the threshold, entryway cluttered with stacks of books and newspapers draped with woven afghans to create makeshift tables. The ceilings are low and he ducks his head to fit under the door frame.

She gestures vaguely to a threadbare orange couch. “Sit. Coffee?”

“No, thank you.” he says quickly, remembering his recent dining experience.

She shrugs. “Suit yourself. Be right back.”

She disappears through a swinging door, into what he imagines is the kitchen. He lowers himself onto the couch, listening to her quiet footsteps in the next room. In the silence, his chest starts to burn again, just a whispering pain in his veins that settles in the juncture between his neck and shoulders. He scratches at it absentmindedly.

She returns a few minutes later, carrying a steaming mug in one hand. “You alright there?”

“Yes,” he answers quickly, dropping his hand into his lap. “If you don’t mind me asking, who are you?”

She sighs as she settles into a velvet-covered armchair, eyes falling shut just as her knees creak. She adjusts her legs in front of her, but doesn’t spill a drop.

“Sorry, damn arthritis,” she says, “And I thought you would know who I am, being an angel and all.”

Castiel sits up straighter. “How do you know that?”

“Please. I’m not one of those folks walking around with my eyes shut. As nice as that sounds,” she adds, taking a sip of her drink, “I’m Jean.”

“Castiel,” he answers automatically, the fake he had been using dissipating in Jean’s presence. “Are you psychic?”

She wrinkles her nose. “Nah. My mother was, though, and pretty powerful to boot. Sometimes I get feelings, more hunches than anything. Especially when angels are around. But I’m wrong most of the time.”

“Is that how you knew what I was?”

“Nope,” she says, shrugging again, “Just recognized you.”

Castiel furrows his eyebrows, apprehension filling his gut.

“How?” he asks.

Jean just grunts before setting her mug on the least precarious looking stack of newspapers, rifling through another pile closer to her feet. The light is soft against the tawny skin of her hands.

She pulls out one issue from the center of the pile, plopping it into his lap without a word. His eyes flick to the date first, and then the main headline.

_**September 25, 2011: God Visits Colton, Bringing Miracles with Him** _

The burning in his shoulder flares up suddenly. He scratches at it while skimming through the article.

 _Arrived in Colton Community Worship Center for the early morning mass wearing a trench coat and suit… Praised Church for its high moral standards and cured blind parishioner before leaving…_ Highlighting the article was a grainy picture of himself, standing in front of a crowded congregation. He recognizes the early signs of strain in his face from Leviathan, but he had clearly been benevolent to this Church in comparison to the other victims.

“Can’t say they got your good side.” Jean says, watching him closely before he looks her in the eye. “Cell phone cameras,” she says by way of explanation.

“I-- didn’t know,” he stammers, the paper crackling from his tight grip, “I don’t remember this place.”

“Yeah, I gathered that,” she says, “I was in that Church. Could feel that you were just an angel and that whatever powered you was driving you mad. Thought it might have killed you by now.”

Castiel looks away, shame pooling in his stomach.

“But,” she continues, “You’re here, sitting on my couch in the same damn outfit.” She looks him up and down. “Sans the tie.”

“It was Leviathan,” he starts.

“Can’t say I’ve ever heard of those,” she says, holding up a hand to silence him when he opens his mouth to explain, “Nope. Don’t wanna know. I just wanna know what you think you’re doing back in Colton.”

“I’m just passing through,” he repeats, the words growing hollow. “But, the paper says I didn’t do damage here,” _Like I did everywhere else,_ he adds silently, “Why are people afraid of me?”

She looks at him for another moment, her face neutral but her eyes piercing as if she could see down to his essence. “Huh. So you really don’t know what happened?”

He shakes his head, but her eyes remain vigilant. Untrusting.

“Huh,” she says again, rising from her seat and abandoning her still steaming coffee. “Grab that stack of papers by your feet, we’re going for a drive.”

* * *

 

It’s a quick drive, Jean explains as she grabs a cane leaning against her banister. Castiel watches from the passenger seat as the residential neighborhoods fade into grassy countryside. A large brick building rises out of the darkness, set back from the road and shrouded by tall trees behind it, forming a small forest in the midst of the prairie grass.

“Is this the church?” he asks softly.

“Yep,” she says, “Colton Community worship center, we welcome you.”

Sarcasm frays at her voice. The building sits low to the ground, its structural angles sharp and more modern than other country churches Castiel had seen. Garbage crinkles under Jean’s slow-rolling tires as they drive into the dust-covered parking lot.

Jean cuts the engine. She pauses, her hands in her lap, staring straight forward. “Listen, you seem like a nice kid, nothing like the monster you were.”

“Since then… I like to think I’ve changed,” he says, voice feeling raspy and underused. “I’ve tried to atone for it all.”

Jean looks at him square on, annoyed. In that moment, she reminds him of Dean, except that Dean would have probably rolled his eyes at his last remark.

“Everybody does stupid shit,” she says, voice sympathetic now, “If you just want a ride to the bus station, I’ll gladly give it.”

He shakes his head, looking down at his white knuckles clutching the pile of newspapers in his lap. He hadn’t looked through them during the drive, fear overriding curiosity.

“No.”

She raises her eyebrows.

“I need to see,” he affirms.

Jean purses her lips. “Alright then.”

She retrieves her cane from the backseat before heading out into the night. Castiel follows close behind, watching as she makes her way to the telephone pole in the middle of the parking lot, a large set of keys in her free hand.

Once the box is open, she flips a few switches that make the street lights come alive, bathing the parking lot in a dusty yellow glow. It casts the building almost entirely in shadow, but Castiel sees the plywood that covers the windows and the thick, yellow words spray painted onto the door.

_**GOD IS DEAD** _

“Oh we do love our fire and brimstone here, never doubt that,” Jean says, back at his side and leaning heavily on her cane. “Still wanna go inside?”

“Yes.”

She shrugs and unhooks the keys from her belt loop, and Castiel follows her as she finds the right one to fit the padlock on the push bars. Besides a line of police tape, the door is unobstructed. After a few silent moments, she locates the right key and pushes through to the inside.

They step into a dark entryway, and Castiel waits in the doorway while Jean fumbles for a light switch, piercing fluorescent light filling the space when she locates it.

His eyes adjust after a moment, and he determines that they’re in some sort of lobby area, dilapidated by time or vandalism, he can’t tell. The carpet is grubby under his feet, covered with dust and grime. Water damage spirals from the ceiling to the floor. The few chairs and couches are overturned and covered with thin, yellowing white sheets. There’s an archway across the room, leading into what he suspects is the church Sanctuary. The woodwork is covered in intricate carvings. The front desk sits mostly intact, covered with papers and a phone hanging off the hook, as if abandoned mid-shift.

“You can set those on the desk.” Jean gestures at the papers in his arms, almost forgotten.

He follows his directions, however, and sets the papers on the desk. He glances at the top headline: _Police Chief and Father of Four Found Dead in--_

“Gotta start from the bottom,” Jean mutters, flipping the pile over and obscuring the headline.

“You’ve seen this one,” she says, setting the newspaper with Castiel’s grainy headshot aside. “After that, well, you might have gone away, but things didn’t stop there.”

She spreads out the next few papers on the desk. Castiel runs his fingers over the newsprint as he reads: _May 14, 2012: Daisy makes an Amazing recovery, Doctors say it's a miracle_. A brunette in a lab coat embraces a child sitting in a hospital bed, a smile lighting up her pale face while a blond woman removes the IV from the girl’s other arm. The paper next to it shares another exultant headline. _January 8, 2013: Local Electrician wins the Lottery._ A tall, thin woman holds her winning ticket in the air while hugging her husband. 

“It keeps going,” Jean explains, “Winning Lottery tickets, terminal illnesses miraculously cured, record number of marriage and engagement announcements. And they all went to Church here, strangely enough.”

“How long did this go on?” he asks, flipping past more headlines of feel-good stories.

She shrugs. “Couple years. Little bit more maybe. Don't know when exactly it stopped. I just know what things started to go wrong. Keep flipping through and you'll see.”

Castiel turns back to the newspapers, passing by wedding pictures and unrealistically perfect weather reports. He stops when it takes a turn for the worse, not even needing Jean’s hand to stop him.

“First one dead,” she says, pointing at the headline.

_**November 1, 2013: Young Nurse Found Dead in her Apartment** _

Only a few months before. The murder is described as “gruesome.”

“Her little sister was the one whose cancer disappeared out of no where. She was the nurse in the picture.”

Jeans voice seems distant, and he’s more aware of the beating of his own heart as he reads more headlines. Dead spouses, dead brothers, dead plumbers, dead teachers; all found at grisly scenes that the paper deemed “unspeakable.”

“Bodies were all found the same way,” Jean explains, “No witnesses. No suspects. All in motel rooms locked from the inside, chests ripped open and blood everywhere.”

Barricaded doors and mangled bodies. Luck that ended in tragedy. A sour feeling settles in Castiel’s stomach to add to the burning in his shoulders.

Hell hounds. Demons.

“Demons.”

The word tumbles out of his mouth before he can stop it, and Jean just stares at him, blinking slowly and shaking her head. “Demons?”

“Your mother never spoke of them?” Castiel regrets the edge in his voice the moment the words are out.

Jean doesn’t comment on it, crossing her arms and backing away. “She did, in fact. In the abstract sense. Never saw one, as far as I know.”

Feel lucky, he wants to say. His fingers itch and he longs to let his blade fall into his hand, anger sparking at his fingertips. He remains quiet, however, restacking the papers until they sit in a neat pile on the desk. He thinks back to something Dean said while he was still human working as a sales associate. _And you're a hunter in training, right?_

“When did the church close?”

Jean makes an indiscernible face. “After Christmas. There was-- well, the last death happened in the church. The preacher's brother was found in the social hall. Torn apart. That was the last death, and the only one where the body wasn’t found in a motel out of town.”

Castiel nods. Worthless condolences sit on the tip of his tongue, unasked for by Jean, but he feels the need for reassurance. A selfish need. A human need.

He doesn’t indulge in it. “Any suspicious disappearances or unusual behavior from anyone in the Church since then?”

“No, unless you count the people who ended up dead. They acted pretty funny a few days before they died.”

Cas nods, searching his mind for other questions he should be asking; information he should be searching for. He’s a soldier, a trained tactician, but his mind clouds over with fog.

Jean seems to notice his discomfort. “You alright, kid?” she asks, leaning over to look him in the eye.

Castiel forces his face into something like a smile, imagining that it probably looks frightening, if anything.

“Thank you for showing me this. I'm--”

Jean cuts him off. “What? You're gonna fix it? The people are already dead, kid,” she shakes her head and looks away, “This town's broken. Feds came through, questioned everyone, nearly tore apart the families that were left behind, pointing fingers every which way but no one knows who did it--”

“I can find out,” he says, desperation coloring his tone, “I can give them closure. Some peace. I mean--” he looks down, hands on his hips. “They wouldn’t believe me, but I can give their memories some justice, especially if, especially if this has something to do with me.”

Jean stares at him, features softening slightly. “I give you credit for trying. You seem like a good one. Better than the angels my mother talked about. You probably have a lot of battles left to fight.”

“This is important.”

She shrugs, straightening the already straight pile of papers. “Well, I guess I'm done trying to talk you out of it. Good luck. I'm heading home, you want a ride anywhere?”

“No, I'll stay.”

She nods and starts for the door.

“Thank you, Jean,” he says

She furrows her brow at him. “I'll be checking in. Goodnight, Castiel.”

* * *

 

The country road is unlit, and the night is almost star-less despite the distance from town. Castiel regrets not taking Jean up on her offer. He also regrets disposing his cell phone a few weeks back. It’s not cold, but the wind reminds him of cold, of shivering in the rain with only a cotton hoodie to keep him dry. Getting his grace back had made those memories dull, as if lit with a dim light.

Well, _a_ grace.

A light glows in the distance, a gas station, and he digs in his pocket for any loose change, finding one quarter there and two in the mud at his feet. He keeps his head down as late night patrons fill their tanks or purchase coffee inside the small convenience store, thankful that the payphone is secluded on the side of the store.

He inserts the quarters with shaking hands, waiting for a dial tone before dialing one of the few numbers he had ever bothered memorizing.

“Who is this?”

Despite his devastation, Castiel can’t help but feel a pull at the corner of his mouth at the unconventional greeting.

“It’s me.”

“Cas?”

“Yes.”

Dean sighs, filling the line with static. “What’s going on?”

Castiel remembers that they had left each other with tension in the air, and Dean with an ancient Mark burning into his arm.

“Hello? Where’ve you been, Cas?” Dean asks again, after a pause.

“It’s not important,” Castiel answers quickly, “I’m in Kansas.”

“Lebanon?”

“Colton. About a hundred and fifty miles from you.”

“Why’re you--” a pause, and Castiel hears a chair scrape followed by footsteps, as if Dean is walking down an echoing hallway, “What’s up? This about Metatron?”

“No. Metatron seems to have vanished, along with any trace of Gadreel,” he says.

“So, what? You just called to chat?”

Castiel laughs softly, looking down at his shoes and gripping the phone receiver tighter. “No. I need your help.”

“You got a case?”

Castiel glances at the dark outline of the Church down the road, barely visible in the late night fog.

“Something like that. “

 

* * *

 

Dean had listened quietly to Castiel’s story, told in a whisper. He only offered a few comments after he finished. “Definitely demonic” and “I’ll be right there, probably by noon tomorrow.”

They hang up shortly after, and Castiel lets his feet carry him while his mind drifts, subsequently taking him back to the church. It had rained a little while he was on the phone, and the road dirt had turned into mud that clung to his shoes and the bottom of his pants. He barely notices, however, choosing to just hunch his shoulders against the wind and shuffle his way back into the lobby.

The wall-to-wall carpet does little to muffle the creaking under his feet as he walks towards the Sanctuary doors, left only slightly ajar. He ignores the newspapers sitting in a harmless stack on the desk, knowing that he’ll have time to pour over them later, memorizing every face and name and story until they were burned into him.

He pushes the door forward, reaching blindly for a light switch on the side wall, flooding the cavernous room with flickering yellow light. It’s simple and modern, like the outside of the church, with high, angled ceilings and simple decorations. He counts sixteen rows of light oak pews, hymnals still sitting in baskets on the ends. A raised platform houses the large organ, covered with a tarp, and a plain wooden altar. The candlesticks are half-used, hard wax pooled at the bases.

The floor creaks under his feet, and he takes a seat in one of the hard pews. He notes the lack of kneelers, and how his legs feel uncomfortable flat on the ground. He bones creak against the wood, but he sits back, settling his head in his hands.

It always came in flashes, and never at the right time. Sometimes he remembers the exaltation, as if the power in him was granted from God alone. Sometimes he sees the betrayal held in Dean and Sam’s eyes, the utter resignation. Mostly, he remembers the thick, black sludge oozing out of his mouth and through his veins, tearing him up from the inside until he came apart--

He grabs a hymnal from the basket next to him, looking for a distraction. He passes by familiar songs, and he can hear the tunes ringing in his ears, some belonging, others stolen and unfit for a church like this. Spirituals, hymns, modern Christian rock, all conglomerated into one book to serve as the background noise to the modern churchgoers experience.

He wants to tear it apart.

He grips at a page, intent on reorganizing it so that each genre and culture can receive its own respect. A small tear appears in the binding before he stops, his eye catching on the something penciled in the corner of a watered-down Cherokee melody.

 _Melted skin._ And then on the page opposite: _Black Eyes._

It’s only written in pencil, faded enough to be easily missed. The handwriting is neat but cramped, and he dog-ears the page, flipping through the rest of the volume. Only one other page contains writing in the same hand as the first.

_Blood in the Cup._

Someone in the congregation had suspected something; sat in the pew and watched as a monster destroyed the church. He hopes they aren’t dead.

He tucks the hymnal under his arm and rises from the pew to keep searching. He reaches out to all corners of the building and the surrounding areas, searching for spirit or monster activity, coming up empty on all fronts. The church feels empty, as if the building had never known life or happiness, its history erased.

There’s only a slight pull, like the vacuum of space, and it takes hold of him like a hand on his shoulder. His eyes flick up to a sign labeled “social hall” over a descending staircase. He tastes metal in his mouth and ignores the feeling. He remembers Jean’s words about the final death.

He finds himself walking through another door instead, this one off of the altar and leading into a small apartment. There's a small kitchen with a dusty stove and an unplugged refrigerator. A threadbare couch sits against the far wall, taking the place of a table. He walks through another narrow hallway to the adjacent bedroom, small and sparse with a twin bed, a nightstand, and a small chest of drawers. The comforter is a pleasing shade of green.

He checks his watch. 12:37 AM. By all accounts he feels like he should be tired, but energy courses through him with a fragile sense of purpose. He rolls up his sleeves. 

The bed blocks most of the light from the window. He moves it first, cringing at the scraping noise the rusted wheels make against the linoleum. He flattens it against the wall instead, so that it fits long-ways next to the window. The room looks bigger as the moonlight shines through the ancient lace curtains.

The night stand and the dresser look askew with the new bed position. He adjusts them next and finds an outlet to plug the only lamp into, bathing the room in a warmer yellow light.

He sits down on the bed; the old springs creak and complain against the new weight.

_I thought I would just sit here, quietly._

He smiles at the memory before laying his head back against the pillow, the thick embroidery scratching at his face and neck. He doesn’t sleep, but drifting off has its own merits.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Castiel doesn’t wake up until sun peaks through the curtains, streaking through the dust in the air and onto his bedspread. He rearranges the bedroom furniture a few more times (finally settling with the bed pushed against the east wall, the nightstand under the window, and the chest of drawers pushed into the closet, widening the small space) until it’s almost noon. He grabs his jacket off of the hook and sets off down the road, early summer heat already setting in.

 _Is there a gas station we can meet at?_ Dean had asked, weary of meeting at the church right away, and Castiel had suggested the diner. He tells himself that it isn’t because of Kelsey, and that he isn’t morbidly curious at all.

He meanders through the downtown, and it’s a different scene from the night before; no one slams their doors or screams at the sight of him, but he is aware of a few people who double-take when they see him walk by. Others who stare a little too long out of their car windows, not believing their own eyes, hands trembling at their sides and hearts beating hard enough for him to hear. 

The diner teems with customers, obviously in the middle of the lunch rush. No one pays him much attention, and he slides into an empty booth, reading the headlines of an abandoned newspaper until a waitress with a head full of tiny, dark braids pulled into a loose ponytail sidles up to his booth.

“What can I get you?” she asks, flipping to a fresh paper in her notepad. Her badge reads Nicole. 

“Just coffee,” he says, noting her friendly smile and general feeling of ease. “Is... Kelsey working today?”

She tucks her pen back into her apron pocket before replying. “Nope, called in sick. I took her shift. Want me to leave a message for her?”

“No, thank you though.”

A few moments go by. Castiel watches Nicole serve a few more people before the door swings open, distracting him. Dean walks in, looking around the crowded establishment with squinted eyes and his hands on his hips.

Castiel’s hands itch on the tabletop. He should raise his hand, let his friend know that he’s here, ready to meet him, but he’s taken aback. Dean’s brow is furrowed and he looks tired; Strained and flushed as if his skin is too small for his body. He doesn’t smile when a waitress greets him.

Castiel raises a hand, finally, catching Dean’s eye. He nods when he sees him, heading over, arms swinging by his sides. Back and forth, they send out waves of energy and sound that make Castiel’s ears ring. The Mark peeks out of his sleeve where it’s rolled to his mid-forearm.

“Colton, huh?” Dean slides into the booth, smiling without teeth.

It isn’t a proper greeting, but Castiel doesn’t comment on it. “Obviously. I was just passing through.”

“We never just pass through anywhere,” he says, taking a plastic-covered menu in hand.

 _Not without leaving a trail of death behind us,_ Castiel thinks. The ringing in his ears is loud but dull and distant sounding, distorting Dean’s voice and making it hard to speak.

“How’s Sam?” he asks, rubbing at his temple.

Dean shrugs, examining the menu with intense concentration. “Dunno. He likes to keep it strictly business. No calling and no sleepovers.”

There’s hurt behind the snark, as always.

“Dean--”

He flips the menu closed, silencing him with a look. “Forget it. Let’s talk about your case.”

Castiel glances around the diner, and counts three pairs of eyes that flick down to their food when he meets them. “There are some people in this diner who want to kill me.”

“All people from the Church you crashed?” Dean asks, “From way back, I mean?”

“It’s hard to say,” he says, watching as Nicole carefully delivers his coffee. He thanks her with a smile and adds liberal amounts of cream and sugar while Dean orders a basket of fries.

“Thought you drank it black?” Dean asks after she walks away.

Castiel makes a face as he takes a sip. Weak and too sweet. “I seem to have lost the taste for it. I thought the sugar might help. Getting my grace back has altered my taste for food. Probably permanently.”

Dean nods, drumming his fingers on the peeling tabletop. “Look, I get that this is hard. It’s personal,” he says, “But. You’re all mojo’d up again, you could probably solve this like nothing.”

“Despite my grace, I’m still a substandard hunter.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Please, don’t give me that pity party again.”

In another time, Castiel would have smiled as if it were a joke. But his shoulders were tense, and the ringing in his ears was starting to take a toll.

“Why did you do it, Dean?” he asks before he can stop himself.

Dean doesn’t answer at first, instead taking a generous gulp of Castiel’s coffee and lodging his tongue firmly in his cheek.

“You’re going to have to be more specific,” he says finally.

Castiel barely lets him finish his sentence before bracing his hands on the table and leaning forward, whispering harshly. “There’s an ancient symbol tattooed to you arm and I would like to know why you took it on. It’s giving me a headache.” He pauses, softening his voice. “You left so quickly last time. I just want to hear it from you.”

Dean sits back in the booth, eyes hard. “Like the fucking police, you are.” He shakes his head, looking down. “Got it from a guy named Cain. You’ve probably heard of him.”

“Yes. Not in a long time, but yes.”

“So you know how charming he is,” he says, preoccupied with rolling up his sleeve. “Anyway. I’m sure you know what it can do. And I’m gonna get Abaddon with it, one way or another.”

The lines of the mark sit jagged and old, disfiguring the blood vessels on Dean’s arm. His fingers itch in his lap. The grace in him wants to heal. To purge such a violent thing from a human’s body. From _this_ human’s body. Not that he could.

“The mark and the blade are a package deal,” Dean says, breaking through the silence.

The mark seems to writhe under Castiel’s gaze, blurring the edges of his vision and turning the sound of Dean’s voice into a hazy soup. He looks away.

“You ok Cas?” he hears, sounds clearing. “You look a little green under the gills.”

“I’m fine,” he says, “The mark-- it’s just powerful.” He looks up; Dean’s eyes are searching. “I’ll adjust.”

Dean flips his shirt over the mark, and Castiel feels some relief at having it invisible. “Soon as I kill Abaddon it’ll be over. Then we can go back to feeling all warm and fuzzy.”

Castiel doesn’t comment further, honestly unsure if he wants to hear any more truths from Dean today. Nicole returns soon after, bringing Dean the greasiest basket of fries Castiel had ever seen.

“Thank you,” Dean says, giving her what looks like his old smile, and she answers with a chipper “No problem!” before breezing back behind the counter.

“Well, she doesn’t look at you like you gave her the clap.” Dean looks up at him, smirking.

Castiel rolls his eyes. “I don’t think she believes the hype. I think she’s putting on a show for her coworkers.”

Dean shrugs, pouring a small amount of ketchup into the paper-covered basket. “Can’t say I blame her.”

 

* * *

 

Dean doesn’t say much when Castiel keys into the church. He trails a finger through the dust on the lobby desk and checks the phone for a dial tone. Castiel feels a warmth under his collar. Annoyance.

“The phone’s dead, I already checked. The pastor pays for the electricity and the gas to keep the building maintained,” Castiel says, echoing Jean’s words.

Dean grimaces, gesturing to the mess. “Looks like the maintenance guys should be fired.”

“I can imagine that not too many people want to return here,” Castiel explains.

“I guess,” Dean says, but his eyes are already drawn to the stack of newspapers on the desk.

He had only given Dean a short story over the phone, and part of him wants to snatch the papers away; keep Dean ignorant about the mutilated corpses found behind doors padlocked shut.

He doesn’t move, however, and Dean flips through the first through papers. “Not much guessing to do,” he says, “Locked doors. Chests ripped open. Gotta be demon deals.”

Castiel strides over, pulling out a paper closer to the bottom of the stack. “Something isn't adding up.” He points to the picture of the young nurse holding her recently cured sister. “This only happened two years ago. The basic deal is ten years. These people should still be alive.”

Dean doesn't look shocked. Instead, his lip quirks up in a mockery of a smile. “Abaddon. She needs the souls. She broke all the contracts. Crowley was pretty miffed when he found out.”

 _Abaddon needs the souls_ , Castiel repeats to himself. He grasps at the side of the desk, and Dean continues looking through the papers, stopping to frown at headline after headline, reciting a few names under his breath, as if memorizing them.

“We're gonna have to start somewhere. Families, friends--” He pauses his perusal at one particular headline. Castiel glances over to see that it's his own photo, grainy and foreboding, and that Dean has reached the bottom of the pile.

Dean stares at the picture for a few moments, and Castiel watches his throat work as he swallows slowly. He quickly slips it back into the pile, turning towards Castiel, gesturing to him with an up-and-down motion. “You should change. People here are freaked out enough by you, you probably shouldn’t be wearing the same outfit you went all touched by an angel in.”

Castiel looks down at his clothing, chosen specifically for comfort and for some leftover nostalgia that shot through his gut when he saw the tan overcoat hanging on the rack of the buyouts store.

“What do you recommend?” he asks.

“I got a suit that’ll fit you. Hopefully the majority of people don't actually think you're the second coming.”

“I don't think I would have been able to drink coffee among them if these people actually believed what their intuition is trying to tell them.”

Dean smirks humorlessly. “Well, thank god for that right?”

Castiel doesn’t laugh. Dean doesn’t seem to care, glancing around the room.

“You check for EMF?” He asks.

“Nothing,” he says quickly, ignoring the nagging feeling pulling him towards the basement once again.

Dean doesn’t seem to catch on, turning back to the newspapers and flipping through the top few. “We should check out the nurse’s family, uh, Angela Bagshaw. Hate that headline. ‘Young Nurse found dead.’ Town this size, I figure they all knew who she was.”

“Her sister was mysteriously cured of terminal cancer two years ago. Probably was one of the first deals,” Castiel says reaching for the companion paper. Angela Bagshaw embraced her sister on the front page, ignorant of her imminent tragic death.

“Same old song,” Dean says, taking the paper in his own hands. “Sister’s gotta be in high school by now.”

“I doubt she knows anything, Dean.”

Dean replies with a hum, moving on to the next case. “No guessing here. Guy won the lottery, found dead six months later.”

“Michael Rivera. Last one dead. He’s the former Preacher’s brother.”

“Huh. Says he was killed in--”

“The basement of the church. I’m aware.”

Dean looks at him, the eye contact new and harsh. “And you’re saying there was no EMF.”

“Nothing.”

“You wanna close this case or not?” Dean snaps, the paper ripping slightly where he grasps it. “Because we’re not gonna get anywhere if I don’t have the whole story.”

“I’m an angel Dean. I can sense EMF instantly. Why would I lie about something so trivial?”

For an instant, something dark flashes behind Dean’s eyes, sharpening the lines of his face for a moment. Castiel tightens his grip, preparing to take a blow. Then Dean relaxes, steps back, puts his hands on his hips.

“I don’t know, man. Something doesn’t feel right about this place."

Castiel lets his hands relax. “I agree. And we’ll figure it out.”

Dean’s mouth quirks up again, but there’s no real humor in it. In lieu of a response, he looks up at the ceiling, hands resting on his hips. “Probably was a pretty nice, in its day.”

“It's only been closed since December, Dean.”

“I get that,” Dean muses, “But even that short a time… took its toll.”

Castiel silently agrees. The walls are mostly bare, with only abandoned nails and wire as adornment. The sheets covering the furniture are yellow with dust. His skin crawls with it.

“Sulfur?”

“Only traces. Seems like it was wiped clean by someone who knew what they were doing.”

Dean nods, tapping his hand on the counter. He checks his watch. “Daylight’s almost gone. We can start fresh in the morning.”

Castiel nods, following the journey of Dean’s hands as he traces his fingers along the outline of the mark under his sleeve. He kept it pulled down after the scene in the diner, despite his usual penchant for rolling sleeves. A silence settles over them. There was no where to go now, nothing to solve until tomorrow, no urgency. Just a cold case without a lead or a fresh body.

The sound of Dean’s car keys shifting in his hand pulls Castiel from his thoughts. “Ok. I got a room downtown. Call me if you need me. Get your FBI face on for the morning.”

Castiel fails to catch Dean’s eye before he leaves, the door slamming with a rattle.

He sighs, leaving the papers on the desk again for the night, Angela Bagshaw’s headline burnt into his eyes. He sighs without thinking about it. The air tastes bitter.

He grabs the stack of newspapers and makes his way back towards the apartment, feet dragging and scuffing up the filthy floor. The ghost of exhaustion presses behind his eyes, spidering down to ache in his shoulder blades. He has his suspicions, but ignores them for now, preferring to think about the peace waiting in the little room. Four walls, a dresser, and a bed, most importantly.

The room is the same as he left it; altered enough that there are shiny tracks in the dust on the floor where he dragged furniture around during the sunlit morning. He sheds his coat and leaves it on the hook by the door. The cuffs of his shirt leave indents in his wrists, and for once they itch enough for him to shed the shirt as well, leaving him in an undershirt and dress pants.

He lays back on the bed, taking the stack of papers with him. He arranges the papers into two piles, one stories of these people’s triumphs, the other of their untimely deaths. Comedy and tragedy. Triumphs and tribulations. He muses that any such cliche will do.

He throws his own headline into the tragedy pile.

The good news pile is significantly higher than the bad; the living outnumbering the dead, at least. He finds the most recent death, remembering Jean’s words about the Preacher’s brother.

_**...Survived by his brother Christian, the Reverend at Rivera’s church….** _

The words catch his eye through his speed reading. The paper with Christian Rivera's murder announcement sat underneath, but Castiel found more interest in the obituary.

… _**and his daughter, Mia, 29, Michael Rivera was a…**_

Mia and Christian. Somewhere to start.

He sets the piles on the ground, a few still splayed open at the foot of his bed, and lays back, feeling a bizarre sense of deja vu. He hadn’t spent more than two nights in one place since working at the gas ‘n’ sip, forgetting how nice it could be. He ignores the nagging sensation in his shoulders and let’s his eyes fall shut once more. Exhaustion pricks at his eyes, dragging him under into some kind of pseudo-sleep.

He feels the impact before he can see anything. The _slap slap slap_ of his shoes against wet pavement, an image forming slowly. He sees his sneakers first, followed by the shine of the parking lot, and then the red glow of the supermarket sign.

He walks through a parking lot, eyes turned down. The street lamps flicker with a lazy regularity, and there’s speed in his steps, his legs carrying him quickly out of some unfamiliar habit. He brings two fingers to his mouth, something warm and papery touching his lips, and inhales, warm smoke filling his mouth and red ash catching on the back of his hand before falling to the ground. A cigarette.

It feels familiar in his hand, comfortable even. The smoke is smooth and cool, and it clears his head for a moment, making his legs move faster until he reaches the red Honda twenty feet away. He recognizes it as his car. His keys are already in his hand, wedged between his fingers, digging into soft skin.

Something whistles past his ear, feeling like a burst of hot wind, making him stop in his tracks. His shoes almost slip in the wet asphalt and he takes a few moments to right himself. He looks up and around. The parking lot is deserted, and his heart pounds against his ribs.

He drops the cigarette and keeps walking, stepping over the smoldering ash. Running seems obvious, and he remembers being told not to run outright when facing a potential attacker. He doesn’t remember where the information came from.

He hears the whistling before he feels the wind, twining between his legs and winding around his ankles. He stumbles, catching one foot on a shoelace and falling to the ground. Blood drips from his right hand, where he broke the fall, but the car is within his sights, just a few feet away. He locates his keys on the dark pavement, breaking into a run when his feet are under him again.

He fumbles with the unlock button, cursing a hazy memory of being told to get it fixed, before he freezes, his muscles going stiff. Something presses against his mouth, hot and thick and smelling like rotten eggs. His legs are frozen, his hand frozen in midair, keys dangling.

His heart beats hard and steadfast against his ribs. A voice, slippery and sweet, whispers in his ear.

_Don’t be shy, darling._

He wakes with a yell, the sound ringing in his ears even when he stops. He grasps at his chest where his heart had been beating hard a few moments ago, but finds that his heart is calm, his grace equalizing the human adrenaline.

He lies back, exhaling.

Just a dream. Castiel remembers dreams; they had been persistent and horrifying when he had lost his grace. Those had been fuzzy, however, and this had been vivid.

He sits up, groaning at the stiffness in his back from the awkward position. The newspapers are still splayed out by his feet, and he reads a few more to pass the time, feeling the ghost of strain in his muscles. He equates the pain with having a phantom limb, real to him but unmeasurable and incurable. Even as he dwells on it, the details of his dream fade, slipping through his fingers like water. By the time the birds start singing, he can only remember the terror and fear, and it exhausts him before the day even starts. Despite the fear, he lays back and closes his eyes, not sleeping.

The sun rises some hours later, and Castiel hears footsteps echoing through the building a few hours after that, recognizing the cadence and fall of them almost immediately. He doesn’t open his eyes, enjoying the warm sunlight against his face without the blinding light.

“You asleep?”

Castiel appreciates the gruffness of Dean’s voice before opening his eyes.

“Not in the traditional way.”

Dean smirks and rolls his eyes. He’s wearing a pressed suit and his hair still looks damp.

“Whatever man, suit up and meet me out front.” He tosses a garment bag onto the bed before exiting.

Castiel stares at the empty doorway before yawning and rubbing a thin layer of sleep from his eyes before inspecting the contents of the garment bag.

The suit isn’t much different from his old one; a lighter shade of black, more grey than blue. The tie is blue and still has a handwritten price tag hanging from it.

He dresses quickly and looks for Dean in the kitchen, finding him in the Sanctuary instead, leaning against a pew. His arms are folded tight around his chest, but he straightens when he spots Castiel.

“Done primping?”

Castiel glares at him before walking past, heading for the door.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

The sun beats down already at 10 AM, and Dean complains about the heat inside his “monkey suit” while turning his key in the Impala. The cloudy sky from the day before had opened up to a clear blue, and heat waves ascend from the pavement. Dean buys himself a drive-thru breakfast and eats it while driving.

“I did some research last night,” Dean says, eyes looking straight ahead, “This case is cold Cas. Way cold.”

“I’m aware.”

“The last investigation was federal, back in January. FBI got involved because one of the victims was found across state lines. They assumed serial murder, but ended up declaring it an animal attack and tabling the investigation due to a lack of evidence. And some pretty freaked out FBI agents, if the interviews are anything to go by,” he adds.

“What do you propose we do?” Castiel asks, trying to catch Dean’s eye as it wanders over the road and to the side, anywhere but him.

“I’m just saying. The FBI closed the case. They’ve already been here, questioning and poking their noses around. Sam and I… we got a rap sheet two miles long and if people get wind that the FBI is back, they might not believe it. Start asking questions.”

“We’ll have to skip town.”

Dean sighs and taps the steering wheel. “Yeah. I’m just trying to prep you for what might go down.”

Castiel waits to respond, adjusting his suit jacket from unbuttoned to buttoned and back a few times before settling with it open.

“If you had told me this two years ago, I would have said that I’ll just do what needs to be done, I am an angel, after all.”

“And now?”

Castiel worries at his chapped bottom lip. “Now… If these people don’t want to comply, I’ll leave it alone. My sense of closure isn’t worth--”

“Their sanity?”

He hadn’t realized that the car had slowed to a stop until he looked over to see Dean watching him.

“Yes.” Castiel answers, gauging Dean’s reaction.

Dean nods, kicking the car into park and exhaling a deep breath. “Yeah, you’re right.”

Castiel notes the tension in Dean’s neck. “You sound unsure.”

“So do you.”

“I just want to talk to them. See where it all went wrong. If it’s because of what I did… I’ll find a way to make it right. As best as I can.”

Dean looks away, nodding again and slapping a casual smile on his face. “Ok. First place up, the Bagshaws. In residence, Angela Bagshaw’s little sister Daisy and her parents, Eileen and Jacob.”

A tall, pink-and-beige skinned man answers the door after four knocks, tired eyes scraping over Castiel’s face in horror. Dean takes over before the man can open his mouth.

“Mr. Bagshaw?”

“Yes?” he stutters, still looking at Castiel.

“I’m Agent Morrison-- this is my partner Agent Henderson, and we just have a couple of questions about the recent police investigation.” Dean flashes his badge, prompting Castiel to do the same.

Castiel counts to five silently before Jacob Bagshaw blinks and turns away from him, addressing Dean with a confused expression. “It’s not what I would call a recent investigation.”

“I understand, Mr. Bagshaw, and if this is a bad time, we can come back--”

He shakes his head. “No, might as well get it over with. Come in.”

Castiel’s eyes sweep through the house while Dean asks the typical questions. Jacob Bagshaw tells them how Angela had acted like a recluse in her last few days, checking into a hotel two towns over and disconnecting her cell phone after one last call.

“She said, ‘They’re watching me, I’m sorry I never told you,’ and then hung up,” he says, looking down at his hands, “I-- I already told the FBI all of this.”

“I apologize, but it’s procedure for re-working the case,” Dean says, voice friendly but firm.

“They found her the next day in Independence. Bed, dressers, everything in the room piled against the door. Her body--” He stops, putting a hand over his mouth. “The police assumed an animal attack before I told them about the call. Then they started thinking serial murder and asking if she was ever stalked… Never came up with anything.” He looks up. “Have you found something new?”

“We can’t disclose that, Mr. Bagshaw. You’ll know when we have something concrete,” Castiel says.

He nods, getting up and walking over to a small corner desk, rifling through the papers on top. “Angie was really popular over at the hospital, just a natural nurse, you know?”

They nod, he continues to search through the drawers. “Whole town showed up for her funeral, it was in the newspaper, as gruesome as that sounds…” His hands emerge from a pile of papers with a few wrinkled newspaper clippings. “Anyway, you can have ‘em. New boys on the case, might catch you up a little.”

He hands the clippings to Castiel, and for a moment their eyes meet. He feels fury, cold and unencumbered directed at him as he gently takes the papers. Mr. Bagshaw is fighting with himself, inevitably calling himself crazy for believing that Castiel could possibly be the ‘God’ that set off a chain of events that killed his daughter. Castiel tries to ignore it, instead looking down at the papers in his hand. A black and white photo sits on top; Jacob Bagshaw stands with his hands in his pockets next to blond haired woman with her arms around who he guessed was Daisy.

“Thank you, Mr. Bagshaw,” Dean interupts, standing up, “We appreciate your help. Give us a call if you have any more questions.” Dean hands him a business card before taking the cue to leave.

They walk back to the car in silence, Jacob Bashaw watching from the living room window as Castiel pockets the clippings. The curtains on the second floor flutter, and he sees a figure before the blinds drop.

“Well that was just about everything I expected,” Dean says, ducking his head down into the car as Castiel fastens his seat belt, “It’s cut and dry demon deals, and a crossroads demon at that. We just gotta find the demon, cut ‘em down, and then we can leave these poor bastards alone.”

Castiel squints at the still-moving curtains. “Do you think he was telling the whole truth?” he asks, turning back to Dean.

“Sure he was. The way he was looking at you, you’d think someone could kill with a look alone.” He turns to Castiel, voice softening. “He lost a kid, Cas. In the worst way possible. He’s gotta blame someone.”

“I just wish I knew what happened here”

Dean clenches his hands to the steering wheel. “I know. But to them, this is all just weird and tragic and they don’t want to talk about it. They don’t even trust their own instincts. That’s what demons do. ”

“I understand.”

They drive for a while through drab residential neighborhoods, each house more off-white than the last. The grass still hovers between brown and green, despite the warm spring weather. Castiel wonders how many towns like this one are out there; left broken by his stint as God.

Dean’s voice interrupts his thoughts. “You don’t know if this really has anything to do with you. It could be two isolated events.”

Castiel shakes his head, looking forward. “This town is a mess because of me. That Church… it was the center of everything and whatever I did,” he swallows, “It all started spiraling after I came here.”

He sees Dean rolls his eyes out of the corner of his eye. “Whatever you say.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Castiel says, feeling bitterness rise in his throat.

“You know exactly what’s wrong with me, Cas, don’t be stupid.” He scratches at the area of his arm where the mark sits, whether consciously or not, Castiel can’t tell.

They interview for the rest of the day, a barrage of names and faces that Castiel remembers from the newspapers. The Browns, now a family led by a single father and grandmother. The Chans, scared and not allowing them to come past the threshold. They all have different versions of the same story: a disappearance and a phone call, followed by a gruesome death.

Dean concedes that he needs coffee around four o’clock, pulling into the familiar diner. Nicole greets them at the door and tells them to take a seat anywhere. Dean doesn’t bother taking a menu before leading them to a booth towards the back.

They sit in silence as Dean checks his phone, eyebrows knitted together. He makes an indiscriminate noise of disgust before pocketing it and forcing a smile up at Nicole with her pen and paper.

“Just a coffee.”

“You sure? Chef’s got a lovely looking pecan pie out for the night.”

“No thanks, just the coffee.”

She flashes another smile before heading off to fill a plain white mug, charging another waitress with bringing it over to drop off at their table.

“I tried to get you pie once.” Castiel finds himself saying.

Dean huffs out a laugh before taking a generous gulp of the steaming coffee. “What are you talking about?”

“You were… upset with me. And you needed to go on a supply run. You left before you could go,” Castiel says, trying not to think about what happened after he had exited that convenience store.

“That was… that was last year right?” Dean says, “Angels still up in heaven, Sam with the overblown flu from the trials, good times.”

Castiel smirks, ignoring the bitterness in Dean’s voice in favor of the smile in his eyes. “They could have been.”

“Could have been what?”

“Good times.”

Dean shakes his head, taking a sip of his coffee. “What kind of pie was it?”

“They were out.”

“Out of pie?”

“Yes.”

“What a crime.”

“Excuse me?”

Castiel hadn’t noticed the stranger standing in front of their table, and almost jumps at the sound of the third, higher pitched voice.

A young girl with a long, blond braid and tired eyes stands with her hands clutched around her backpack straps. Her eyes dart around the almost empty diner. Her voice had been small, but low and assertive and now she looked as if she wanted nothing more than to back away.

“Can we help you?” Dean asks, his tone notably friendlier.

She fidgets, adjusting her feet beneath her to a wider stance. “Yes, I think so.”

“What’s your name?” Castiel asks, seeing something familiar in the girl.

“Daisy Bagshaw,” she says, her chin tilting forward and up, “My sister was Angela Bagshaw.”

Dean glances at Castiel, eyes weary. “What can we do for you, Daisy?”

“Can I sit?” she asks quickly.

“Of course,” he says, motioning for Cas to move over.

She doesn’t remove her backpack, letting it squish and deflate against the back of the booth. “I-- I was listening today, when you talked with my father.”

“That’s ok. It wasn’t confidential,” Dean says.

“I know,” she interrupts loudly, and then recoils as if afraid of her own volume. “I just--”

“Daisy,” Castiel says, turning to look at her, all small frame and wringing hands, “We’re here to help. Any information you can give us would be an incredible help in finding who killed your sister.”

She sniffs, eyes glassy but clearing. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to tell you that Angela called me too. Before she died. I didn’t tell the last FBI agents that. I didn’t even tell my parents.”

Castiel meets Deans eyes before turning back to Daisy, “And?” he asks.

“And,” she struggles on, “It was six hours before they found her body. She must have been… sitting in the hotel room that they found her body in. She told me to keep taking my meds and to never stop getting check-ups and that she loved me, of course,” she wipes her eyes before continuing, “And then she told me that there was something wrong in the Church, something got set off early, someone made a mistake. That-- that _she_ made a mistake.”

“She? Was she saying that she herself made a mistake?” Castiel asks.

She shakes her head. “No. I don’t think so. She just kept saying ‘she’s a liar’ and ‘She’s not his’ and kept rambling until the phone went dead. I couldn’t get a signal back to her no matter how hard I tried.”

“Who’s ‘his,’ Daisy?” Dean asks, leaning forward, “Somebody in power? Somebody controlling this?”

“I don’t know. She sounded crazy. I sound crazy.”

She drops her head again, all pretension at bravery drained with her last words.

Dean clears his throat. “Thank you, Daisy. That’s a big help.”

“I know I withheld information, but the last FBI agents wouldn’t have--”

“This isn’t CSI, Daisy, and you’re not in trouble.You better get home before it gets dark out, though.”

She nods and slides out of the booth. Her backpack buckle catches on Castiel’s suit jacket. They wrestle with it for moment, and then she’s free, wishing them a quick goodbye with a swish of her long skirt.

“Well, at least we knows it’s in a female vessel,” Dean says, taking another sip of his coffee.

Castiel remains silent, reaching into his pocket and running his fingers over the paper Daisy had slid inside. He reads it under the table-top while Dean pays the bill up front.

_I know what you are. I know you can bring my sister back. If you’re the God you said you are, you’ll fix this. It’s your fault._

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: bloody injury, nothing too serious.

“So the kid slipped you a note, it’s not like people aren’t recognizing you.”

“Dean.”

“I’m just saying, Jacob Bagshaw obviously recognized you, he just doesn’t trust his gut because he’s too busy trying to trust the system. Daisy now, she’s smart, she’s part of a new generation and she knows there’s something big going on here.”

Castiel unfolds and refolds the note in his hands, the graphite from the pencil markings rubbing off on his hands.

“I can’t bring her sister back.”

Dean shrugs but doesn’t respond. They pull up in front the church, the dark already settling over the wide stretch of field behind it. Dean pulls around back, tucking the Impala between two tree stumps in the shadows.

“What happened to your cell phone, Cas?”

Castiel tries to think up a suitable answer, taking longer than would be deemed acceptable. The truth was that he had dropped it in a semi-frozen fountain in northern New York, finding that the GPS tracking system was keeping hordes of demons on his tail. Angels found him too. Angels wielding blades and angels that wanted to serve him as a leader. They didn’t need GPS to find him, but getting rid of it coupled with turning off his access to Angel Radio had lessened his unwanted encounters considerably.

“I lost it.”

Dean rolls his eyes reaching over into the glove compartment and pulling out a small phone with a large screen.

“One of Sam’s old ones. Should still have some minutes on it.”

Castiel takes it, along with the charging cord, running a thumb over the smooth screen. “Thank you, Dean.” He has no intention of turning it on.

“Don’t mention it.” He fiddles with the air conditioning dial, turning it back and forth, “You sure you want to stay here?”

Castiel glances at the building, the red brick dull and dusty against his eyes. “Yes. There’s still more we can learn from this place.”

Something like disappointment flashes across Dean’s face, but it’s gone before Castiel can pin it down.

“Suit yourself,” he says. “Be fresh in the morning. Gotta go see the Preacher.”

Castiel slips the phone into his inside pocket. “Goodnight, Dean.”

“See you, Cas.”

 

* * *

 

 

It’s almost 8 PM when he hears the front door rattling open, the jingle of a thick ring of keys loud in the still air. He stands in the kitchen, suit jacket draped over the chair and sleeves half rolled up, trying to will the coffee maker to life.

He listens for footsteps, paused with one hand still inside the coffee maker. They're small and emphasized by a third thump of rubber.

Jean appears in the doorway, leaning heavily on her cane.

"Damn thing never worked right," she says by way of greeting.

Castiel takes his hand out of the contraption, sighing and leaning on the counter instead. "It seems I've developed a minor addiction."

“Well, welcome to the club, kid. I’d think you’d be exempt from that sort of thing though, being an angel and all.”

“I thought so too,” he answers, abandoning the counter to sit at the small, formica-topped table.

Jean takes her time, setting her cane up against the wall at the right angle to keep it from falling. She sits across from Castiel, folding her hands on top of the newspapers already spread out across the table.

“People are talking,” she says.

“I assumed they would.”

She purses her lips. “I was driving around today, going out to the farm stand a few miles east. Just saw your friend leaving when I was on my way back.”

Castiel remains silent, waiting for her to go on.

“He is your friend, no?”

“He is,” he says quickly, “He’s helping me with the case.”

She sits back, staring at him with her tongue between her teeth. “Case? That’s what you call all this mumbo-jumbo?”

Castiel smirks briefly at the use of mumbo-jumbo. For the second time, she reminds him of Dean.

“He’s a professional,” he explains, “With these sorts of things. Did your mother ever mention hunters?”

“Once or twice,” she says, scratching at the table-top. “Rickety thing. Always wanted to get a new one.”

“Did you live here?”

She scoffs at that. “Nah. Just helped out the Preacher with maintenance before he moved to a house in town. This apartment’s been empty a lot longer than the the church has been closed”

“How long?”

“A year and a half maybe.” She shrugs. “Preacher’s niece used to live in it. Periodically.”

“What do you mean?”

“S’none of my business really. She moved in with the Preacher before this mess started anyway.” She looks around the kitchen, darks eyes moving slowly but methodically. “So why does your friend have an ancient dark mark on his arm?” She asks as if flippantly mentioning the weather.

Castiel’s stomach drops. “You felt that.”

“Nearly drove off the road when it hit me. It’s nothing to mess with, obviously.”

Castiel resists the temptation to tell Jean that she was obviously more powerful than the mere daughter of a gifted psychic. He settles for telling her the truth instead.

“Dean… feels that he has to save the world. Even if it costs him his own life.”

“Huh,” she says, “You’re even more cryptic than I am, kid.”

He smiles. “I don’t mean to be.”

“Well, as long as he doesn’t bring any more evil along with him, I’m ok with not knowing too much.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “I gathered that.”

He realizes too late how rude and tired his voice sounds. Her eyes narrow.

“Watch it, kid,” she says, bracing her hands back on the tabletop. “You’re the one with the bad history here. I’ve kept to myself my whole life. Never hurt a soul.”

Castiel feels chastisement like a slap across the face, but appreciates the sting. “I apologize. I meant no disrespect.”

“I know. Our words run away with us.” She softens. “Did you gather anything from the folks you talked to today?”

He shrugs and lays his hands open. “People are mostly confused. They don’t understand the signs that they were given. Most believe that their loved ones simply went insane. It’s… typical of these situations.”

She shakes her head. “It’s a shame.”

Castiel wonders at Jean’s purpose for stopping by, watching her as they sit in silence for a few moments. After a second he realizes he doesn’t care. The company is nice. She’s quiet and thoughtful and Jean isn’t trying to make him a leader of angels. She understands what happens when he tries to lead.

“What do you intend to do with the facts when you do have them?” she asks.

“Dean and I are going to speak with the Preacher tomorrow, he was out of town today,” he begins, “And then, if we find the culprit, they’ll need to be taken down.”

“Hm,” she says with a shortness, “You said before that you could give the families closure. What closure are you bringing them if you can’t even tell them what killed their loved ones?”

Castiel blinks, his automatic response caught in his throat. _The souls will be able to rest._ “I like to think that the dead deserve closure in their own right, Jean.”

She nods slowly, her eyes boring into his like a silent interrogation. Motive, outcome, procedure-- Jean was interrogating him as much as he and Dean had been interrogating families today.

“I take it you still haven’t investigated the social hall,” she says, tapping her fingers against the table again.

“No,” he replies a little too quickly, keeping himself from lying.

Jean gets up, reaching for her cane before Castiel has a chance to help her. “Take care, Castiel. As long as you watch out for the dead, I’ll keep an eye on the living.”

 _I’ll keep an eye on you,_ her eyes say before she turns away. The door slams shut a few moments later.

Castiel abandons the coffee maker, running the tap and drinking a tall glass of water instead, trying not to wonder why he’s so thirsty. Jean’s exit leaves an emptiness to the kitchen, a creeping loneliness that he finds unpleasant.

He finds find some ancient wood polish under the sink, his hands wandering. He wants to keep busy, so he polishes the wood of his dresser and night table. The wood is old and scratched, but dust-free at least.

After cleaning, he finds himself wandering through the sanctuary, stopping to sit on the stairs leading down to the social hall. He stares into the dark basement, running his fingertips along the cement grooves in the stairs, dry skin catching on the roughness. He feels awake and jittery, even without the help of the coffee he had hope to have.

A metal railing digs into his back when he leans back, but he’s apathetic to it. He reads a few signs on the aging bulletin board in front of him; announcements of Sunday School time changes, youth group fundraisers, and a Spaghetti dinner to fund a new electric organ.

He sees outlines of people, bustling around the church to tend to their business. Aging women with soft, feet-friendly shoes taking the stairs one at a time, smiling at their grandchildren running ahead of them. Small feet wearing sneakers with cartoons on them and teenagers who whisper secrets behind their hands.

He closes his eyes, blocking them all out. He’s confused, if he’s being honest with himself, and he doesn’t understand why people won’t confront him. They’ve seen him. He’s gone to their diner and into their homes to ask about their murdered loved ones and yet no one will speak plainly to him. The closest had been Jean, who won’t tell him everything, and a few young boys who hadn’t even had their wits about them. Even Daisy, who had the opportunity, hadn’t faced him directly.

It’s all old guilt, even older than falling angels. It’s dead angels with charred wings on the soft ground of heaven. A room full of dead politicians without the memory of how their blood had gotten on his hands. Dean’s arms holding him steady when he stumbled even though he couldn’t look him in the eye. The last feeling of pushing Dean and Bobby away from him before Leviathan clenched their fists around Jimmy Novak’s heart and _pulled--_

He’s cold. A draft flows up the stairwell, creeping under his shirt and making him shiver. Exhaustion weighs down his muscles, his energy crashing at last. His chest feels stiff and congested, and he wraps his arms around himself. He let’s his mind drift, thinking that his own hand on his side could be anyone’s. He thinks of Meg first, but the thought of her death brings him a strange grief he can’t explain. The hand widens, roughens, and hesitates before wrapping around his back and clutching close, a relieved laugh bubbling in his ear.

Purgatory. His supposed penance, even though it had never felt that way.

He gets up, muscles stiff, heading back to his temporary bedroom. Something vibrates in his pocket, almost making him jump. He pulls out the cell phone Dean had given him earlier, realizing that Dean must have turned it on before giving it to him.

Dean’s names flashes across the screen. He opens the message.

_This town’s beat._

Castiel smiles, imagining Dean laying on his hotel bed, scrolling through the limited number of channels allotted to him. He leans against the kitchen doorway to type a response.

_I thought this was a business trip._

The answer comes almost instantly.

_Who are you? Sam?_

It’s meant as a joke, Castiel knows, but he can’t help his stomach from falling at the loaded words. Dean misses Sam, or how he and Sam used to be, however long ago that had been.

The clock in the corner of the screen reads 1:30 AM.

_Go to sleep, Dean._

_Can’t_ , comes one message, and then, _Feel like I’m crawling out of my skin._

Castiel snaps the phone shut, tossing it onto the kitchen table before gripping the back of one of the chairs. He doesn’t know how to help Dean; doesn’t know how to save him when he can feel an ache between his shoulder blades and soreness in his feet.

 

* * *

  

“I understand, Pastor, I realize it’s been a long time. This’ll only take a minute, and my partner will vouch for me.”

Dean stares pointedly at Cas, the visual equivalent of an elbow to the ribs. “Of course, sir. Just a little bit of you and your niece’s time,” he sputters out.

Somehow Castiel is back in the FBI suit, the April warmth seeping through the polyester. Dean has circles under his eyes, a darker shade of purple than the night before. He picked Cas up outside the Church today, and didn’t mention their text conversation from the night before.

Christian Rivera gives him a steely look, dark eyes like daggers. “It’s Mr. now. Not a pastor anymore. I just sell Met-Life over the phone.” He clenches his fists by his side, stepping aside to let them in.

The inside of the house is almost a carbon copy of Jean’s, sans the piles of papers and knick-knacks, making the space seem more open. Sunnier. The walls are a snowy white with faded floral furniture.

“Mia!” The Preacher calls up a polished wood flight of stairs.

Castiel hears a voice yelling back in Spanish, _Give me a minute!_ , before being ushered into a small den. He sits next to Dean on the small leather couch while the Pastor sits in the armchair across from them.

They launch into the typical question sequence. The story starts out the same. Michael Rivera began to act strangely about a week before his death. He gave away prized possessions and dumped large sums of money into the collection basket at the church.

“How did you hear about his death?” Castiel asks when Christian pauses, looking at his hands in his lap.

“Got a call. Jean Danbury, wonderful lady, was doing our maintenance at the Church. She was replacing some lightbulbs after a Bible study meeting and found him in one of the Sunday School rooms.” He swallows. “Just a mess.”

Castiel thinks back to his talks with Jean; not once had she mentioned that she had been the one to find the Preacher’s brother.

“We’re sorry for your loss, Sir,” Dean says, the sentiment sounding even less sincere than it had yesterday.

“Yeah, well. If you guys are still looking that must mean that there’s something worth looking for, right?”

They’re saved the trouble of answering when a young woman appears in the doorway. “Uncle?” she says, looking at Christian Rivera pointedly.

“Excuse me,” he says immediately, standing up to follow who Castiel presumes is Mia into the other room.

Dean taps his heel impatiently, leaning back on the couch with a sigh. “You feel like we’re getting nowhere too?” he asks.

Castiel only somewhat listens, more interested in the hushed conversation happening in half-english, half-spanish in the front room.

_I thought you said we were done with this. The feds don’t believe me anyway._

_They say they’ve got new information-- we can finally know what happened!_

Silence, weighted with something like anger, and Castiel leans over to chance a look. The woman looks less young upon a second look, maybe late twenties. She wears a navy blue dress made of stretchy material and a well-worn leather bag with a long strap across her chest. Before he can look away, she spots him staring, looking at him critically before a grabbing a jacket and walking out the front door. It slams with a bang.

The Preacher comes back into the den, hands on his hips. “Mia has to go to work now, but she would like to meet with you after her shift.”

“We appreciate it, Mr. Rivera. If you remember anything else--”

“Yes I’ll give you a call.” He looks tired as he drags a hand over his face. “Mia will meet you at 5 o’clock in the public library. It’s where she works.”

“Thank you,” Castiels says. Mr. Rivera plants his hands back on his hips, as if resisting the urge to physically usher them out.

“Charming,” Dean says a minute when the door slams behind their backs.

Castiel feels eyes on him. Through curtains and car windows that shift or speed away when he looks at them. How could a town so willfully ignore something so obvious?

“I wonder how long it’ll take the police to figure out that federal agents are horning in on their turf,” Dean says as they duck back into the impala. He stalls a moment before starting the car, rifling through a few old cassette tapes before shoving them all back in the glove box.

“Would you like me to pick the music, Dean?” Cas asks slowly, testing the water.

Dean sighs and leans his head back against the headrest. “Honestly, Cas? I don’t care.” He puts the car in drive and starts heading down the street.

Castiel opens up the glove box in lieu of a response, rifling through the tapes until coming up with a Rolling Stones album called _Beggars Banquet_. He slips it into the cassette player, the tape already halfway through a song when it starts to blare from the speakers. The singer croons the lyrics almost conversationally.

_Please to meet you, hope you guess my name…_

“Really Cas? You pick the song about the devil?” Dean snickers, talking out of the corner of his mouth.

“It wasn’t on purpose, I assure you.”

“Well it’s always relevant.” Dean reaches over and turns the volume up.

Castiel tries to speak over the blaring guitar and vocals. “Have you talked to Sam?”

Dean huffs out a laugh, throaty and loud. “Got a text from him yesterday morning. He’s got a case in West Virginia to take care of, something about a poltergeist.”

“Why didn’t you bring him here?”

“What is this? Family counseling?” Dean says, turning the Impala sharply into a drive-thru line, “Me and Sam, well, _he’s_ still mad. Got a right to be. I’m leaving him alone. Simple, really.”

Castiel doesn’t answer, and Dean turns the other way to order from the tinny speaker. He doesn’t ask if Castiel wants anything.

Dean parks and Castiel waits in silence while Dean eats, pretending not to notice when he dumps copious amounts of amber liquid into his fountain soda.

“I know you’re trying to help, Cas,” he says with his mouth full, “But if anything, I’m thinking clearer than ever.”

“Dean.”

“I’m serious. Sam, Abaddon, the angels, I can handle it now. All this is-- It’s just a plan. A means to--”

“An end. You’ve said that,” Castiel says, keeping his voice even.

Dean swallows, eyes darkening. “I came to help you, didn’t I?”

“Meaning?”

“That I’m not soulless or broken or whatever you think the mark is doing to me.”

Castiel scowls at the flippancy of his tone. “The mark _is_ affecting you, Dean. Your heart rate is elevated and you’re putting off heat waves, yet your body doesn’t sweat.”

“Side-effects.”

Castiel scoffs and looks out the window. “I don’t know how to help you, Dean. Not if you insist on destroying yourself.”

He hears the sounds of papers being crumpled and tossed into the backseat before the engine is roaring again.

“Good,” Dean says, “You’re less annoying when you’re not trying to save everyone.”

Castiel bites the inside of his cheek and pretends that it doesn’t sting. Dean’s voice doesn’t sound right. It’s rough and set too far back in his throat.

He looks like he might respond before he turns away and puts the car back in drive, speeding out back to the road.

 

* * *

 

 

Their downtime is strange, full of bursts of conversation but little substance. Castiel wonders at Dean’s behavior, his tense jaw, and how much of the Mark’s effects are physical and how much are psychological. He checks his phone often, and sometimes out of the corner of his eye Cas sees a short text from Sam.

“Where the fuck is this library,” Dean mutters while driving around town slowly. The town limits are close together, and there aren’t many places to look. Castiel spots a small brick building that sits low to the ground, the “Colton Public Library” sign half-hidden by a large bush.

Dean swerves into the parking lot, maneuvering the impala between two smaller vehicles. It doesn’t take them long to find the main section of the library, and Castiel points Dean towards a round table where Mia Rivera sits typing on a laptop, glasses balanced on the tip of her nose.

“Miss Rivera?” Dean asks, already reaching inside his jacket.

“You don’t have to bother, I recognize you from earlier today,” she says, not looking up from her laptop.

Dean looks relieved, if anything. Castiel understands; the act is tiring. They both sit across from her, waiting while she finishes typing.

“I’m not sure why you’re here,” she says, her lips pursed.

“We’re sorry to bother you, Miss Rivera,” Castiel says, “Your Uncle told us it would be ok for us to meet you here.”

“No. You’re fine here. I just don’t know why you think I know anything my Uncle can’t tell you himself.”

“Just procedures, ma’am, that’s all. Gotta get all the immediate family,” Dean explains.

She glances at him over her screen, brown eyes searching. “Sure. If that makes you feel better.”

She jots down something in a notebook next to her computer and continues typing. Dean glances at him, confused. Castiel takes her flippancy as permission to proceed.

“We are very sorry your loss. We just want to know where you were the night your father’s body was found.”

“Here.”

“In this library?”

“Yes. Working.”

Dean takes notes and Castiel proceeds. “When was the last time you had spoken to him?”

“I said hello and goodbye at every Sunday service at church. He called me on my birthday. It was short.”

Castiel feels a rush of something. Solidarity? Empathy? “He didn’t try to contact you at all before he died?”

“Oh he _tried_ , I just didn’t reciprocate.” Castiel notes the strain in her voice. Regret.

“Did your father have any enemies? Anyone who might want to hurt him?” Dean asks, an expectant look on his face.

Mia pauses. Her fingers still look as though they are searching out the next letter, the next thought, but her hands hover, frozen above the keyboard.

“Susan Wallace,” she says, finally looking at Castiel, “And you.”

Castiel can feel the heat coming from her eyes, a stunning a shade of brown, but almost black with hatred in the moment. Dean jumps on the offensive.

“My partner? He’s conducting an investigation, nothing to do with--”

“Dean.” He stops him, feeling tired all the sudden, and cold. The charade is exhausting his already limited energy, and he feels the need to speak frankly.

Mia watches him, eyes searching but hurt, glassy. She’s waiting for him.

“What do you remember about that day?”

“What day?”

“September 25, 2011.”

She purses her lips, thinking. Castiel can see himself reflected in her eyes; small, distorted. “I remember you. You were dressed… similarly. You appeared in the doorway during a service. You touched Ruth McIntyre’s forehead, and suddenly she could see when she had been legally blind for twenty years.”

Castiel hears Dean mutter a frustrated “Jesus Christ” under his breath before getting up and leaving, his chair scraping on the floor. Castiel watches him leave, arms swinging before he reaches into his pocket to pull out his phone. He rounds a corner and vanishes.

Castiel turns back to Mia. “I apologize. Keep going.”

Her eyebrows knit together, creating harsh lines on her forehead. “You-- you just left. You left and didn’t come back and then we saw you all over the news and there were deaths and you killed fifty religious leaders in three days and then you were just gone.” Her eyes widen after she finishes speaking.

“You’re different now. That much is obvious,” she says, almost an afterthought.

Castiel sighs. “I was… misguided then. I pursued power,” he pauses, “I abused it.”

“So you are-- you aren’t… God?”

Her questions is hesitant, with a hint of cynicism, and without the awe or heartbreak of a believer. He shakes his head.

“No. I’m an angel. A poor excuse for one.” He echoes his own words, spoken long ago during a different apocalypse.

“An angel,” she nods to herself. “But you’re still a killer.”

“Yes.”

“I thought angels were supposed to protect humans.”

“I am,” he says, jumping on her words, “I mean, we are. I was… possessed by power but also possessed by monsters. They… twisted me into something dark. I almost didn’t survive.”

“But you did, obviously.”

He laughs softly, enjoying the small smile he gets in return. It fades quickly however, and he feels the need to reassure, above anything. He’s a killer, but he’s no danger to her. He hears a voice in his head, however, sounding a bit like Dean, telling him to focus on the case at hand.

“Do you remember what happened after I disappeared?”

“Nothing, for a while,” she says, “We were a little freaked out, I mean, you didn’t do anything to us, but you also killed a lot of people after and it was… scary. I was living in the Church apartment then. It felt weird. Then she showed up.”

“Susan Wallace?”

Before Mia can answer, a hand clamps down on his shoulder, almost making him jump. Dean stands behind him.

“Come on, got some new info. Gotta go.”

“Dean--”

“Later,” he says, tightening his hold on Castiel’s shoulder, “We’ve got some news.”

Castiel turns back to Mia, who is already back to typing, eyes focused back on the screen. “Can we talk again sometime?” he asks.

She nods, absorbed. Castiel gets up, following Dean’s already retreating back.

Castiel catches up to Dean outside, pulling him back by the shoulder. “What’s wrong with you?” He asks, anger sliding into his voice.

Dean sighs. “We can’t do anything for these people, Cas.”

“What are you talking about? We can find the demon who did this. Mia was just--”

“She’s dead.”

“Who’s dead?”

“The demon. Susan Wallace. I had Sam run the name while you talked to her in the library.”

“How did you-- how do you even know if she was the demon?”

“Just, sounded familiar. Turns out she was a missing person in Missouri while we were working a case in Joplin,” he says, “Family was still looking for her, even though the case was way cold, over two years cold. Sam’s pulling up more info now.”

Castiel sighs, running a hand over his face, impatient. “Do you have access to a computer?” he asks, reluctant to go back into the library where Mia was busy trying to forget the horrors he had just stirred back up for her.

Dean nods. “Back at the hotel.”

 

* * *

 

 

Dean’s hotel room looks the same as always, with a single bed instead of two, a small table, and a kitchenette covered in dust. The blue appliances appear to be from the late Cold War Era.

Dean removes his jacket immediately, throwing it on the bed; Castiel finds himself doing the same, draping his suit coat over the back of a straight backed chair. He feels relief, and realizes that overnight Kansas had decided that it was time for summer, bypassing any mildness of Spring. It leaves Castiel feeling hazy and sluggish, not to mention overly aware of his terrible posture in the chair.

Dean clicks the touchpad a few times, brow furrowing at what Castiel supposes is the machine’s lack of cooperation. Susan Wallace’s name bounces around in his head, common in sound. He tries to recall the name, even a face, searching in the dim memories before his watery demise. There were heavenly battles and frustrating meetings with Crowley, and there had been so many demons, so many twisted faces. He hadn’t thought about the humans trapped inside.

“Susan Wallace, 28,” Dean starts, interrupting his thoughts. “Went missing September 30, last seen in a Target parking lot in Joplin, Missouri, where she worked. Security cameras showed her stopping in the middle of the lot for a few minutes, smoking a cigarette, and then she drove away while looking somewhat agitated.”

“Do you think that’s when she was possessed?” Castiel asks. He kneads at his shoulder, feeling the tension in his own muscles.

“Could be,” Dean says, “More likely she was in the car when the demon got her.”

“Either way…”

“This is probably the demon that started all this,” Dean finishes.

“Do you have a picture?”

Dean swivels the laptop around, revealing a picture of a smiling, young blond woman with a round, ivory face, black and white and grainy as if it had been scanned from a newspaper. There’s a small article underneath, and he scans it quickly, the information the same as Dean’s summary. The search for her was suspended after a week, no evidence found.

“Why did you make me leave the library?” Castiel asks slowly, looking down at his hands.

“Cas,” Dean says, “There’s no way this girl’s alive. Sam thinks she was killed in combat that _we were involved in._ ”

“But you don’t know for sure.” Castiel steps on Dean’s last words

Dean’s mouth is tense, and he’s silent for a moment.

“No,” he says finally.

“Why did you make me leave the library? I needed more information, Mia was giving it to me.” He can’t mask the annoyance in his tone, verging on anger.

Dean looks away. “You looked upset.”

“Upset?”

“Upset!” Dean repeats, throwing his arms up, “You weren’t staying focused. You’re too involved in this, for whatever reason.”

“Dean,” Castiel starts slowly, “Of course I’m involved. I’m the reason these people are dead.”

“See, that right there, Cas, is _bull._ ” Dean emphasizes the last word. “You passed through here, didn’t even do anything wrong, and now you think some random demon’s deals are your fault? Who’s to say the demon isn’t dead too?”

“You didn’t have to lie.” Castiel’s voices strains and he eyes the door, needing air.

Dean sighs. “I’m not lying. She looks familiar, like one of Abaddon’s gang that we got in a raid a while back.” He rubs a hand over his face, looking suddenly tired. “For once, this isn’t our fight. There’s no one to save.”

Castiel swallows, tapping a finger on the table. He doesn’t look at Dean, speaking instead to newspaper clippings of Angela Bagshaw’s funeral.

“Susan Wallace was possesed on September 30, only a week after I came here, and she made deals with these people.” He stands up. “You’re right. This has nothing to do with you.”

Dean blinks, the muscle in his jaw tensing, eyes going cool. “Ok. No problem.”

Castiel nods, heading for the doorway.

“I’m gonna pack up and head out,” Dean says behind him when his hand is on the doorknob. He hears the laptop close with a snap. “We’ll hook back up soon, this shit with the angels is bound to hit the fan soon.”

Castiel nods, taking it as a dismissal. He’s back outside in an instant, slamming the door behind him and stalking back to the road. He walks through rippling heat waves, watching them disappear when he gets close enough.

Dean’s anger doesn’t bother him. Anger is a part of him that Castiel could never heal, not even when he was full of grace. It’s the cold, uncaring expressions that get a rise out of Castiel. The way he can go from the Dean he knows to a Dean that won’t even look him in the eye.

Castiel stops, his feet tiring under him. Country spreads out before him, only the outline of the town behind him to mar the landscape. A telephone pole juts out of the ground behind him, and he sinks to the ground, kicking up dirt before leaning against the sun-bleached wood.

He leans his head back and closes his eyes, realizing that he needs to catch his breath. The ache in his shoulders turns into a pulsing throb. He flexes his fingers, stiff and swollen with dehydration.

He doesn’t dwell on it.

Susan Wallace. A simple name. Blond. Pretty, round face with a wide smile. He had seen that smile before, except it was tampered with, falsified, distorted by time with a demon under her skin.

_Daisy makes a full recovery, Doctor’s say it’s a Miracle_

The headline pops into his mind, and he tries to visualize the picture that had gone along with it. Angela Bagshaw, dressed in colorful nurse’s scrubs, embraces her little sister in a moment of photographic bliss. There had been someone else in that photograph. Helping Daisy with her IV; smiling, but not quite.

He fails to recall anything else, and he growls in frustration, beating his fist once against the hard packed ground. It's a useless gesture; his skin is clammy and the dirt sticks to it. A pickup truck rolls past him and a toddler stares at him from the back window.

Dean would be gone by now, at least an hour into his drive back to Lebanon. Castiel's grace drains from him, inch by inch, and Dean's body temperature would only climb from here, the Mark of Cain burning away at him. What he would do to wrap his hands around Abaddon’s neck himself.

Another car comes by, and Castiel looks up to see it stopped by the side of the road.

"You're not gonna make any friends around here sitting there like a log," Jean says, leaning out her window.

"What happened with Susan Wallace?" He asks, all energy for niceties spent.

Jean face falls, and Castiel regrets his words almost instantly. His mission to bring relief to the people of Colton so far seemed a failure.

She clears her throat, turning to move some items off of her passenger seat. "Get in."

He scrambles to his feet, dusting himself off and shedding his coat. It brings some relief from the heat, and he slings it over his arm. He steps into the small passenger seat once again, and Jean puts the car in drive.

"Where are we going?" He asks while she maneuvers back out onto the road.

"Grocery shopping," she says, eyes ahead, "You look like you need something to do."

He nods while Jean makes her way down the country road, a blue walmart sign looming in the distance. She swerves around some road kill, her frown deepening. The parking lot is mostly deserted, thankfully.

“Probably good to leave that coat in the car, I don’t want to attract too much attention.”

He stows it in the back seat while Jean searches for a parking spot close to the entrance. She charges him with grabbing a cart while she walks ahead. He finds one with only a single rattling wheel and follows after her.

They walk through the produce section side by side while Jean selects several different varieties of apples, separating them into different bags, attracting stares and averted eyes alike despite his lack of signature trench coat. She picks out a bag of dark colored greens, a stalk of romaine, and a ripe pineapple before moving on to the dry goods. She sends Castiel on a mission to find multi-grain cheerios; he scans the aisle and wonders why the world needs “Dulce de Leche” cheerios.

After dropping the box of Jean’s desired variety into the cart, she leads him to an entire wall of salad dressing. She’s about to toss a bottle of balsamic vinaigrette into the cart when he speaks up for the first time.

“White wine vinaigrette goes better with romaine,” he says, noting the undeniably grumpy tone to his voice.

Jean rolls her eyes, tossing the balsamic dressing into the cart. “Tough. You get in a fight with your buddy?”

“Dean is hard to work with.” It feels like a lie. Dean had always been easy to work with. They could be a team; they could fall into those patterns so easily. It had to be the Mark burnt into his arm.

“Hm,” she hums, “Can’t get heads or tails of him. Granted I haven’t actually _seen_ him yet--”

“What do you feel?”

She glances at him, worry apparent before she covers it up with an indifferent expression. “When he drove by me, the other day, he felt like he was on fire. I don’t know him, or else I’d be able to tell you more. He’s got something ancient burning away at him, that much is obvious.”

Castiel nods, rubbing at his own smooth forearm. Dean was gone anyway. It would be weeks before he saw him again.

“Who’s Susan Wallace?” he asks again.

She inspects a bottle of thousand island. “She’s a poor girl who went missing in Missouri. Probably dead. Family was devastated I’m sure.”

“Jean,” he says, trying to meet her eyes.

She doesn’t oblige him. “I see you’ve been talking to Mia.”

“Dean and I tried to interview her.”

“I’m assuming she’s the only one who’s cracked so far. Did she say she knows who you are?”

“Yes.”

“Typical.” She decides against the thousand island, replacing it back on the shelf with care. “Mia has her own opinions on what happened.”

“You don’t agree?” he asks.

“Agreeing or disagreeing has nothing to do with it. Susan Wallace is still a missing person, still considered legally dead until proven otherwise. But Gina Fraiser is another story.”

“Gina Fraiser?” The name is not familiar, but he can visualize it, written on newsprint.

“Yup.” They enter the paper products aisle; she grabs a six-pack of toilet paper. “Secretary for Colton Community Worship Center and part-time RN.”

“A nurse?”

“You do catch on quick,” she says, the sarcasm tired, “Go over the newspapers I gave you again. Bound to find something. It’s all common knowledge. You’ll have to go to Mia for the conspiracy theories.”

“Are you implying that I shouldn’t trust her?” The dark-eyed young woman had been the only person to look him in the eye; the only person in Colton to call him out as the monster that he is.

“No,” she chuckles, “Not what I was saying at all.”

 

* * *

 

 

She drops him back off at the Church, waving a hand at his offers to help her carry her bags into her house. The spray-painted “God is Dead” looks less threatening in the bright afternoon sun. He’s surprised to see the Impala parked behind the Church, only the back bumper visible to him.

He enters the building and is greeted with an odd sound. The sound of paper tearing, and swearing by a familiar voice. Dean stands towards the back of the lobby, stripped down to his undershirt with his FBI jacket and button-down pooled on the floor, gathering dirt. His hands rest on his waist as he looks at a blank expanse of wall. Long strips of paper with ragged edges lay at his feet; the striped wallpaper that still adorns the rest of the lobby walls.

“What do you think?” Dean calls without turning around. “I’m thinking we can paint it something nice--anything would be better than those fucking stripes--”

“Dean?”

Castiel’s soft question makes him turn around. His sleeves are rolled up, the angry red mark visible. “Figured you’d come back here. Didn’t know you were gonna go on a four hour field trip in the mean time.”

“I met with a friend.”

“Friend?”

“She knows a lot about the town.”

Dean nods, turning back to look at the wall. “Just seemed like a shame. Nice, modern building like this just going to ruin. It wouldn’t take much to clean it up, just some dusting and a few walls to paint.”

The words are on the tip of Castiel’s tongue. _What’s the point?_ and _What’s gotten into you?_ but he stops himself. He’s standing next to Dean and he isn’t giving off searing heat. He seems lighter.

He’ll take it.

There’s a loose strip of wallpaper in his sight line. He takes hold of it and pulls, instantly frustrated with how the glue sticks to the wall, leaving behind a messy residue.

“Huh,” Dean says, looking at the wall, “I wonder if there’s any vinegar around here. To loosen up the glue,” he adds at Castiel’s confused look.

“The apartment might have what you’re looking for.”

Castiel finds himself searching cabinets for a vinegar suitable for wallpaper removal, moving aside dusty canned goods and cleaning supplies. He locates an ancient bottle of white vinegar, tucked behind a petrified bag of beans. Dean had said something about a spray bottle, and how that would make it easier. He finds an empty one under the sink, the cleaning solution either long used or evaporated. He transfers the vinegar over with minimal spilling over the sink, the pungent smelling liquid trickling down his arms into his shirt sleeves while he dilutes it with warm water.

He returns it to Dean, who sprays it in liberal amounts at large section of wall, gently scoring the paper with his pocket knife while he sprays.

“Might not work,” Dean mutters, “It can be a bitch to get out and I’m probably putting holes in the wall to boot.”

“It might work just fine.”

Dean finishes with the wall, setting the bottle down on the reception desk and leaning against it. “Gotta--uh-- wait a few minutes. Then we’ll see if the glue loosened up any.”

Castiel nods, looking around the room. Dean’s right. The bare bones are all there for a beautiful church; high, open ceilings and wide skylights to let in the sun. He sheds his coat and jacket, laying them on the desk.

“Sorry I just, ah,” Dean says after a few moments of silence, sighing out a distressed noise, “It didn’t feel right leaving here yet.”

Castiel nods, folding his arms against his chest. “It feels like we can fix something here. Without burning the world down in the process.”

Dean smirks. “Short term goals. Sounds like something Sam would say.”

Castiel smiles back, enjoying the lightness of the moment. “How is Sam? You spoke with him?”

Dean scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, voice tight, “He’s still on the case. Easy job, according to him.”

“Sam’s a good hunter.”

“Yeah, yeah he his,” Dean says quickly. “Listen, Cas, I don’t want you to think I’m ditching you in this, because I’m not. But there’s a possibility that whatever happened here… there might be nothing we can do.”

Castiel sighs, leaning against the desk, next to Dean. The damp wallpaper is bubbling in places, while some spots stay firmly attached to the wall. “Mia. She seemed like she knew something. Or had an idea. And Jean.”

“Jean?”

“She was a maintenance worker here before Christian Rivera was found dead and the church closed. She’s been helpful.”

“She the ‘friend’ you mentioned?”

Castiel nods. “Apparently the demon possessing Susan Wallace went by a different name while she was here. Gina Fraiser.”

“Sounds like Mia’s done some research of her own.”

Castiel hums in agreement and turns around, spotting the stack of newspapers sitting on the desk. Dean must have moved them from his bedroom.

Dean doesn’t follow him. Ten minutes is up, and he starts to pull down wallpaper instead. Castiel takes a seat on the rickety office chair, flipping through each headline to glance at the picture. The blond woman named Gina appears in almost all of them, especially pictures taken in front of the church; one parishioner holds up a winning lottery ticket in an image, the dutiful church secretary standing by with a beaming smile. She wears a bridesmaid’s dress in one large Church wedding, and sits in the pews with a box of tissues in another. He finds the original photograph from his memory, of Gina Fraiser, RN, fixing Daisy Bagshaw’s IV while her sister embraces her.

Castiel searches through newsprint with the sound of peeling paper as his background music, glancing up to see if the vinegar/water mixture is doing it’s job. The paper comes down in long, satisfying strips, revealing clean, cream colored walls. He spots Dean’s small smile before it disappears.

He leans back in the chair, letting his eyes fall shut, succumbing to the growing ache in his chest and shoulders, the pain settling and making his head hurt along with it. His vessel hadn’t shown signs of wear since he took in the souls of purgatory, and even then it had been sudden. This was degenerative.

“Cas?”

He opens his eyes to Dean leaning slightly over the desk, worry etched into the lines of his face. “Vinegar fumes get to you?”

“No,” he says, standing, “Just a long day. Should we start on the other wall?”

Dean doesn’t question further, opting instead to hand Castiel the spray bottle while he continues to remove paper from the adjacent wall. It’s calm work, and Castiel finds the bitter smell of vinegar to be strangely pleasant. Dean hums when they stop talking.

They get half the lobby done within a few hours, Castiel spraying and scoring while Dean chips away, sometimes using the rusted metal spatula Castiel had found in the kitchen to help. The floor is a mess with the ugly stripes.

“Not sure who thought striped, _maroon_ wallpaper was a good idea, but I think we did this room a service, at least,” Dean says while they stand back and admire their work.

It takes a few minutes to gather up the mess and bring it to the dumpster in the back. They end up back in the kitchen, washing glue and vinegar off their hands in the small sink. Castiel finds some dish towels that aren’t moth-eaten for them to dry their hands.

Dean flops back onto the couch, staring around the dingy kitchen. “This apartment could use some sprucing up. Looks even worse than the church.”

“What did you have in mind?” Castiel asks, hanging up the damp towel to dry.

Dean’s face falls momentarily. “I dunno. Just a thought.”

Castiel wants to protest, has a complaint on the tip of his tongue, _go on, tell me your ideas,_ before he feels it: A piercing, paralyzing pain in his head, amplified by a screeching in his ears. He reaches out for something, his hand finding solid wood before it buckles underneath his weight, crashing to the floor before he realizes that he’s hit the floor too, his knees coming in contact with the linoleum.

He tastes bile in the back of his throat, and blood pounds in his ears. Something wet trickles down his neck. Blackness threatens to gel over his eyes until he feels hard hands on his shoulders.

“Heyheyheyhey--” Dean says, skidding forward to kneel down in front of him, “”What the-- Cas? What the hell, man?”

Dean shakes him, and he groans, but his vision begins to clear. Dean’s face, etched with worry, hovers in front of his. “Apologies,” he mumbles, his voice scratching at his throat.

It leaves nausea behind, and a feeling of shame.

"Don't fucking apologize-- come on, come sit.” Castiel stares ahead, his vision focusing and defocusing, not helping the nausea.

Dean’s hand on his arm is heavy but reassuring as he grasps Castiel’s elbows and helps him to his feet. The pounding in his head fades to a throb, but the nausea increases as he sits down. He clutches his stomach.

“Aw shit,” Dean says and he moves in the corner of his vision, going to the corner of the kitchen to fetch the trash can. “You gonna puke? Puke in there.”

“Thanks,” Castiel manages, but his vision is already clearing, and his stomach is too empty for anything to come back up.

“Just relax, breathe.”

“I don’t need to breathe.”

“Then do whatever angels do to destress I don’t know. Water?”

He shakes his head. “Won’t do any good.” Castiel looks up. Dean had dragged a chair over to sit in front of him, his face lined with concern and worry.

“You ok?” He says softly.

“Yes,” Castiel says.

Dean sits back, running a hand over his face. “Then what the hell was that?”

“I don’t know,” he says, stilling his shaking hands as soon as he feels them trembling against his leg. “My grace-- or this grace-- it shouldn’t cause these symptoms, it’s not a sickness.”

Dean’s eyebrows furrow with confusion. “What do you mean, ‘this’ grace?”

Castiel shakes his head, looking down at his hands. “This grace isn’t mine. I stole it from one of Malachi’s angels.”

“How many angels in history have taken another angel’s grace?”

Castiel sighs. “Not enough to count. Not enough to keep alive. In another time it was a crime punishable by death. Now… with things the way they are, things are different.”

Something shifts in his eyes, but Dean doesn’t push further. “Ok. I know you’ve been sleeping--” Castiel starts to protest but Dean cuts him off, “I’ll let you get some rest. However you think is best.”

Castiel doesn’t respond, opting instead to watch Dean move around the kitchen, hanging up the damp dish towels to dry and closing the cupboards Castiel had left open. He rights the overturned chair, examining it quickly for any wear.

“Dean.”

“Yeah?”

“You could stay here.”

Dean’s face is frozen for a split second. Fear? Repulsion? Castiel doesn’t have enough time to read it before he looks down at the counter, shrugging and smirking.

“If you needed to cuddle all you had to do was ask,” he jokes, a smile on his face somewhat like his old one.

Castiel rolls his eyes; more of a habit than anything, and doesn’t deem it worthy of a response.

Dean huffs out a laugh once he sees his face, letting it fade into silence. “I appreciate the offer, but I’ve got the room, might as well use it.”

“Of course,” Castiel says.

Dean finishes cleaning up the kitchen, stowing the spray bottle full of vinegar under the sink. The small window had stopped letting sunlight in some time ago, and Castiel can see a sliver of moon forming above the trees outside.

“Gonna head out,” Dean mutters, “See you in the morning.”

“Good night, Dean.”

He gives another smirk on the way out, cutting back into the church, probably to get his jacket and shirt, Castiel realizes. He lets out a breath, the exhalation rattling in his chest as he gets to his feet.

His grace is rapidly compensating, speeding through his veins in all the light and sound that he has within him. The pain fades. He stands up and walks to the small kitchen window, caked with dust, and stretches his arms above his head, feeling bone and muscle stretch within him, and the energy redistribute.

Something is coming for him.

He feels corrupted; light within a darkness. The power of his stolen grace is dimming, but with that should come lost of power at a slow decline, not sputtering shortages and crippling moments of humanity.

He knows that with a flick of his finger he could have angels here to help him. Hannah would come, at least. Of course, she didn’t know that he was using the power of a murdered angel. She didn’t know that he shouldn’t be leading anyone.

He keeps his connection to angel radio tightly shut, closing the door on everything he had left behind.

_I could just take it from you, you know._

He starts, the voice seemingly just behind him. He whips around, finding nothing but space and a creeping feeling. His blade falls easily into his hand at his mental summons, obviously unneeded, but there nonetheless.

“Hello?” he asks the silence.

He doesn’t get a reply.

He lowers the blade, sending out feelers for any living thing in the building. Besides the beating hearts of mice and insects, he finds nothing except the same traces of sulfur, not enough for a demon to actually be present.

He nearly trips over a stray piece of wood, succumbing to his own exhaustion. His temporary bed calls to him, with it's creaky springs and lumpy quilt. He collapses onto it once he reaches the bedroom, feet still hanging off the edge, blade still in hand. His body is sore but resilient, and falls into darkness without even turning off the lamp.

He's driving, hands gripping the wheel so hard that his knuckles turn white. He's running from something, someone, but he doesn't remember who.

He talks himself down. He's ok. No one is following him. He's only three miles from home and then he'll be inside with... Someone. A pet? The name escapes him, even though he's had the cat his whole life-- cat? Right, it's a cat.

It’s a lonely country road, the only way home. His father had put in a request to city hall for streetlights to be installed on the road. But that was years ago, and the road remained the darkest place for miles at night.

_I could just take it from you, you know._

The voice feels like a hand pressing against his chest, hot and relentless, clouding his mind with more fear. It was the same voice as before, that whispered for him to not be shy--

_And I meant it, sweetheart. You don’t have anything to fear._

He feels foolish, but he speaks aloud. “What are you?”

A soft laugh. _I’m nobody. But I need your help._

“Why would nobody need my help?”

_Because I can free you. This is monotonous, working in Target, going home to an empty house._

Castiel wants to tell the voice that he doesn’t go home to an empty house, not really, but thinks it’s probably wise to not contradict a disembodied voice.

_Don’t overthink it. You can talk to me. Tell me everything._

He swallows, his throat working hard. The road is still before him, and he has to concentrate on the twists and turns. Only a few more miles now.

_This won’t stop when you get out of the car. If that’s what you’re thinking._

“I’m not thinking anything.” His voice is strong, still clear.

_Great. Then let me in. It’s so much better if you let me._

“What will you do with me?”

_Show you how to really have fun._

He doesn’t respond. He feels the presence beside him. It’s black and writhing in the corner of his eye; a smoke that stings the insides of his nostrils but still manages to smell like something he wants--needs--

 _I could just take it anyway,_ the monster repeats, _but where would the fun be in that?_

A few minutes pass. The smoke fills the entire car now, save for the windshield. The road still stretches out before him, he can see the lights on in his neighbor’s house now.

He slows the car down, feeling drunk and lazy from the heat of the smoke. He pulls into the grassy area beside the road, and switches the ignition off. The lights go dark with it, or maybe it’s the smoke finally clouding the windshield.

“Yes,” he says, voice shaking now.

A small laugh, just a huff of hot air really, then the smoke is on him, pressing against his mouth and burning him.

_Just… perfect._

Castiel wakes up in pain, gasping from the sharpness of it and the warm wetness that follows. He gasps and something metal clatters to the ground. He realizes that he had been clutching his blade by the wrong end, and its razor sharpness had pierced his palm. The light of his grace streams from the small wound, along with hot, red blood. He drops it, the sound loud when it clatters to the floor.

The dream still burns against his eyelids, and it fades slower this time. He takes stock of himself laying half off the bed, his feet almost touching the ground and his breath wheezing in his chest.

The person in the dream hadn’t been him, couldn’t be him. The voice sat in his mind, clear as a bell. A monster.

He tries to concentrate on healing his hand, the pain dull now but annoying. The grace surges, but blood still flows, and he feels another wave of exhaustion from the effort. He leaves the wound somewhat open, still bleeding, and sits up off the bed to go find a gauze, something to staunch the blood flow.

He feels another presence before he finds him; not hostile this time, unlike the voice. It breathes softly, and sounds calm and asleep.

Dean sleeps on the couch in the kitchen, boots still on, fully clothed with one arm resting above his head. His shirt is rucked up a bit where he had slid farther down on the couch, his chin tucked against his chest.

Castiel knows that he’s staring, his still bleeding palm dripping blood down into his sleeve, but he can’t help himself, not really. He wonders why Dean came back, but the thought’s barely there. He never cared why Dean was anywhere, as long as he was nearby.

He glances at the stove clock. 3:30 AM. His dream had felt like five minutes, and yet he had been dead to the world for hours. Could someone have snuck in here and stabbed him in the heart, with him fast asleep? Or had he known that the new presence in the house was non-threatening?

Either way, if he’s going let his hand heal the old-fashioned way, he’ll have to get to work. He starts the faucet, intending to clean the blood from his hand when he hears Dean stir behind him.

“What the--” he says, simultaneously tensing up and reaching out before his shoulders relax. “You can’t just sneak up on me like that, Cas.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it, not like a bullet hole would do you any harm anyway.”

He pauses. “Perhaps.”

“Is that blood?”

Castiel is about to lower his blood covered hand when Dean spots it, the blood flow stopped for the most part, the edges of the wound still jagged and open. He gets up in an instant, taking the hand in his own to examine it.

“Not too deep, bleeding’s already stopped, what the hell were you doing?”

Castiel pulls his hand away. “Holding my blade at the wrong end.”

“Can’t you heal it?”

“Yes.”

Dean blinks. “Is this some sort of test because I’m--”

“What are you doing here, Dean?”

Dean smirks, hands moving to rest on his hips. “I thought I was invited.”

Castiel sighs and turns back to the sink, running the wound underneath the lukewarm water. “I’m sorry. You were. I just had an unsettling evening.”

Dean moves to the couch where he rummages through his duffel bag. Castiel hadn’t noticed it before. Dean returns to the sink with a package of beige-colored bandages and a focused expression.

“Even if you do find a first-aid kit it’s probably ancient.” He nods towards Castiel’s wound, clean from the water. “Let me see that. Need to check to see if you need stitches now that you cleaned it. ”

Castiel sighs, acting far more critical than he actually feels, pettiness rising to the surface. He lets Dean see his hand, reaching out so that the laceration is under the light.

Castiel doesn’t even have the strength to wince when Dean pushes the laceration together to apply the antibacterial ointment and before wrapping it in a bandage. His hands feel rough but act quick and thorough in their work. He fastens it with a metal clip and steps away, shrugging.

“Good as new. Don’t even need stitches.”

Castiel massages his hand, barely feeling the sting. “It should heal quickly.”

Dean looks uneasy, his eyebrows furrowed. “I hope so, unless you’re all human again?”

Castiel is exhausted, feeling all his energy pooling in his hand to heal it the old-fashioned way. With his right hand he leans onto the back of the kitchen chair, cautiously, remembering how it had felt when it clattered to the ground earlier.

“No,” he finally responds, his voice sounding spent to his own ears, “Just, saving it for a rainy day.”

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up and down in understanding. He leans against the table and folds his arms close to his chest.

“I _am_ sorry for barging in. Found out that my credit card was no good, paid in cash for what I could and split outta there as fast as I could.”

“Dean, I don’t mind that you’re here. I asked you to stay here.”

“Yeah yeah but you didn’t tell me to sneak in in the middle of the night like a creep.”

Castiel smirks and rolls his eyes, pulling out the chair to sit next to Dean. “Fair enough.”

Dean smiles back, his eyes crinkling with genuine happiness even though the clock now read quarter of four. Castiel faces the window, and the sky is a deep blue behind Dean’s face. His smile fades after a moment, and he looks down, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Sam said this thing, long time ago. Right before we went to face Lucifer, back in Detroit,” he begins, glancing up at Castiel.

Castiel sits forward, indicating for him to go on.

“Well, we were driving through the night and I looked in the backseat. You were sleeping like a baby, out like a light. I said as much to Sam, and he reminded me that angels don’t sleep.”

“Your brother was correct. Still is, in fact.”

Dean tapped his fingers on the table and watched them as if they were the most interesting thing in the world. “Then why were you fast asleep when I got here?”

Castiel fidgets, the right words coming to him in fragments. “I’m using another angel’s grace, and unfortunately, that comes with some drawbacks.”

“Such as…?” Dean splays his hands out.

“My vessel sometimes forgets that grace is consuming it, like when I fell asleep. I felt exhaustion, but it wasn’t real. I had dreams, but they were too realistic to be like human dreams.” Castiel knows that the explanation is accurate, but his mind nags at him.

“What are you dreams like?”

Castiel is surprised at Dean’s tone. Open, curious, without a hint of agenda. There’s no searing heat from the mark, no urgency.

“Strange,” he sputters out, “I had the first the night after you got here. I dreamed I was in another body, a different vessel.”

Dean’s eyebrows knit together. “Did you know who it is?”

Castiel examines Dean’s face, hesitating a moment. “I have reason to think that it’s Susan Wallace.”

“Huh,” Dean muses, sitting back in his chair, “What makes you think that?”

“I think that my dreams are me reliving the night she disappeared. I’m in her body, walking through a parking lot, when I felt something following me.”

“She did disappear in a Target parking lot.”

Castiel nods. “Yes. And then a voice comes.”

“The demon?”

Castiel purses his lips and nods by way of answering. Dean whistles low. “Never heard of demons talking to their vessels beforehand. Sounds like angel crap.”

“You’re not far off. It wanted Susan’s permission, said it would be so much better if she invited it in.”

Dean shrugs. “So we got a demon with a consent fetish, never thought I’d see that but I gotta admit it’s refreshing.”

“I don’t think its intentions were so pure, unfortunately.” Castiel can still feel Susan’s fear, punctuated by her loneliness, her unhappiness. “The demon followed her into the car, kept expanding until black smoke filled the car, and then--”

“Susan said yes,” Dean finishes.

“Yes,” Castiel says.

Dean sits back, running a hand over his mouth. "Shit. Poor girl."

Their silence following is broken only by the sound of Dean's phone vibrating from his pocket. He fishes it out with a glance and curse after seeing the caller ID.

"Yeah?"

There's a muffled voice, Sam. Dean's mouth is a hard line and jaw barely moves when he gives his short answers.

"Yeah. Sure. Here he is."

Dean thrusts the phone in his direction, barely waiting for him to grab it before getting up and moving to rummage through his bag next the couch.

He sets the phone next to his ear. "Hello?"

"Hey Cas," Sam says, voice thick and tired, "How's it going? Dean filled me in."

Castiel wonders how Dean could have strung together the tale when he could barely get a two word sentence out to Sam on the other line.

"Good," Castiel says, "It's a case."

"Sounds like a lot more. You doing ok? I know this is pretty close to home."

Castiel waits to answer in favor of watching Dean shuffle around, pulling a clean t-shirt over his head after shedding the old one. He's wearing jeans now, instead of the dress slacks he had left in, and keeps those on. Human laundry patterns still confuse Castiel.

"I'm fine. Dean has been a good help. So far it seems like a pretty routine crossroads situation. This demon just didn't use the crossroads."

"Yeah about that." The sound of papers rustling. "I managed to talk to Crowley, ran both the demon's names by him, Wallace and Fraiser."

"And?"

"Nothing. Not one of his crossroad demons, or ever a demon be authorized to make deals at all. Whoever it was, they're working independently."

"Dean said that you thought the demon was probably dead."

Sam makes an indiscriminate noise. "Dean had me run the name of the vessel, and yeah she's a missing person. He thinks that he might've killed her sometime in early February. I-uh-- I wasn't with him then so I can't say for sure."

Dean takes his toothbrush and walks towards the bathroom at the back of the apartment.

"I see." Castiel says.

"Yup. Listen, I'm sorry I'm not there to help. Things are just--"

"It's ok Sam. It's just a case." He repeats his earlier sentiment.

"A case. Right." Sam is genuine though his tone is casual. "Well let me know if you need anything else, whatever."

"Thank you, Sam."

He hangs up and hands the phone back to Dean, staring at him.

"You two best friends now?"

"Sam and I have always been friends."

Dean squints but shrugs it off, plopping the spray bottle full of vinegar onto the table.

"We're up now, might as well keep peeling."

Castiel keeps his smile to himself until Dean turns around.

 

* * *

 

After a few semi-silent hours of spray-peel-scrape-and repeat, Castiel hears a soft knock on the front door. Dean has his hands full of wallpaper shavings, and gives him a pointed look. Castiel goes to the door, grabbing his blade from the front desk, holding it behind his back.

Mia Rivera stands on the threshold, and he quickly tucks the blade into the back of his pants.

"Hello," she says, eyes downcast. She pushes past him into the lobby.

When he turns to follow, she's already stopped, nervously twisting her hands through the straps of her purse, staring at Dean.

Dean turns around to see her standing there; he raises his eyebrows. "Miss Rivera?"

"That wallpaper was horrible,” she says, voice shaking as she stares ahead.

"Yeah, it was," Dean agrees, setting down the spray bottle and spatula he's still holding.

Mia nods a few times, eyes darting around fast. "Yeah. Ok."

"Are you alright?" Castiel asks from behind her.

She whips around, eyes intense and focused. "Yes. I was wondering if you had a moment to talk. Right now."

Castiel nods and nearly trips over himself removing a sheet from a row of straight backed chairs. He motions for her to sit.

She obliges, worrying at the corner of her lip with her teeth. Castiel sits as well, leaving a seat between them to give her space. He looks over her head at Dean, and he nods before continuing with the wallpaper, putting his back to them.

He turns back to her, offering the most reassuring smile he can manage.

Mia doesn't seem to soak it in. She glances at Dean. "He can be trusted?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

Her voice is fierce. "Yes," he says, "I would trust Dean with anything."

She nods, looking down at her hands. "My uncle said I shouldn't stir up trouble when I told him who you were," she starts, "He knows the truth, but it's all too fresh." _Too unreal,_ Her eyes add.

"I apologize for everything your family has had to go through."

She shrugs. "I don't think it's your fault. I know I should be scared, you hurt a lot of people."

Castiel furrows his brow, confused. "And you’re not?"

“No,” she says, but sounds distracted. Her eyes follow Dean’s motions; scrape, peel, spray, repeat. “You called him Dean. Not a last name, I take it?”

“He’s my friend,” he answers, “We’ve been friends a long time.”

She nods, bringing her hands back to the straps of her purse. “I can see that now.”

They sit in silence for a few moments, watching Dean do his work. After a while he starts to whistle, low and under his breath, but the tune sounds familiar enough that Castiel starts to join in. His whistling is weak, however, a skill he had never mastered.

“You need to round your lips more,” Mia corrects, drawing a circle in the air in front of her mouth. She demonstrates, whistling a pure, unwavering tone.

Castiel tries again, failing to latch onto Dean’s tune but making his own, regardless. “I used to try to whistle a lot. I had heard it could make time go by.” _I used to try to whistle when I was human,_ he leaves out, not wanting to give away too much. It feels natural to talk to her, however, and wishes he could tell her the truth.

“I’ve heard that too,” she says, face serious, “Seems silly though, time always goes at the same pace, no matter what.”

Castiel feels his shoulders relax, relief coming from her simple logic.

“Why is your friend taking down the wallpaper?”

He watches Dean’s shoulders tense; he had obviously heard the question.

Castiel speaks softly to Mia. “He enjoys having something to do with his hands.”

“Huh,” she says, watching Dean climb onto a rickety chair to get to a high point. “What color were you planning on painting it?”

“Um.” Castiel falters. “We hadn’t discussed it yet.”

“Excuse me.” Mia says, getting up.

Castiel sits back as Mia approaches Dean and taps him lightly on the shoulder. Dean turns to her, wide eyed. Castiel can’t help but smirk at the obvious intimidation Dean felt at the smaller woman.

“I was wondering, would you mind if I pick out the colors for the repainting?”

Dean stutters when he speaks. “I hadn’t-- I hadn’t thought that far, but sure, yeah. Why not?” He glances at Cas, shrugging and smiling as if he’s about to laugh.

Castiel smiles back, feeling suddenly warm, but nice. Mia beckons to him to follow her into the sanctuary of the Church.

“I don’t know who’s idea it was to sponge paint the Church this horrible blue over ivory, but it’s gonna have to go too.” She gestures around the cavernous room, grimacing at the dated paint-job.

“I agree,” he says, just noticing how unappealing sponge-painting could be. He never could have predicted that he would be discussing the pros and cons of sponge painting while he was here.

She nods while looking around, eyes wide and searching. “It’s a shame, right? To let it all just go to ruin? It’s a good idea to clean it up?”

She poses her thoughts as questions, and Castiel has no idea how to respond, no idea where it was all headed. Watching Dean pull strips of wallpaper from the wall feels right, productive enough, but without danger.

“It’s a good idea, Mia.”

“I’m glad you started this, yeah,” she says. “And uh, we’ll talk. I’m going to talk about what happened. Just not--”

“Not now. I understand, Mia,” Castiel tries to reassure her.

“But I,” she stutters, massaging her temples with hard fingers, “I do want to tell you. I will tell you. Just give me time.”

He doesn’t hesitate in answering. “Sounds good.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

Castiel sleeps again, but he wakes up feeling rested, rather than aching and miserable. The hard work appears to help the pain, rather than aggravate it. He wears soft clothes that belong to Dean and he’s too tired to have nightmares, not with the sound of Dean’s steady breathing coming from the other room; he almost wishes he could stay awake to hear it.

Dean talks more, especially to Mia. She comes every morning, first with gallons of white paint and then with a yellow toolbox that she leaves closed in the corner of the lobby. While Dean exclaims victory when he peels the last strip of striped wallpaper from the wall, intent on taking a break, Mia is there to drop a can of primer into his waiting hand. Dean grumbles something about labor laws, but Castiel can see his smile.

Mia proves her worth as a supervisor, keeping them organized enough to complete tasks one after another. Once the walls are primed she sets Castiel up with washing windows (a plastic bag secured around his still healing hand) and Dean with washing mouldings. Only then does she open the toolbox.

Confused at first, Castiel quickly becomes mesmerized with the way Mia lays out her bottles of paint and paper plates, mixing her colors with care before setting the brush to the wall.

Mia paints without a guideline, without any obvious plan. She starts with a navy blue; heavy, thick lines with a wide brush. She twists her wrist and they taper to a point at the end of a swirl that takes the motion of her whole body to make. She fills in space with smaller lines of royal blue, ending with sharp points that stick out like thorns. Spindles of sky blue come next, inlaid with the navy once it’s dried.

“It’s the ocean,” he says, standing behind her with a bucket of soapy water.

“It’s a wave,” she corrects him. “I couldn’t paint an entire ocean on these walls even if I wanted to. There’s just not enough room.” She pauses, her brush hovering over one of the few white strips left, “But I understand that that was just a generalization.”

Castiel smiles and moves on.

Dean had stood by him one day, arms folded, watching her work on the wall above the entryway.

“Not sure who’s gonna want the building after she gets to every wall,” Dean whispers to him as Mia paints the vivid yellows and oranges of a sunburst.

Castiel doesn’t answer right away, preferring to watch Mia do her work instead, her eyes intent on mixing colors. She comes with new printed paint samples every day, preferring to mix her own colors but saying that she likes to have a place to work from. She had told him earlier in the day that the sun had to be perfect.

“It has to look like the sun in the sky, but also the sun of your dreams,” she had said, logical in her discourse, though her eyes were full of wonder.

She wore a red dress that day, practically covered in yellow splotches by the time they finished.

“I don’t think we would want anyone to have it that couldn’t appreciate it,” he finally responds to Dean, turning to look at the side of his face.

Dean smirks, face forming one of his “i-guess-you’re-right” faces. The truth was, Castiel doesn’t know what they are doing this for. They don’t own the building, it had been abandoned by the town even if the Pastor still kept the water on, and clearly no one cared what they did with it. They couldn’t sell it, they couldn’t even stay here, technically. Castiel figures that Dean will only stay so long, will only let himself be distracted for a little while longer.

The next day, Mia takes a break from painting when Dean asks her to help him sand and refinish the benches that had served as pews. Castiel washes the old stained-glass windows with a bucket of soapy water in tow, their budget of zero dollars not allowing them new ones. He can’t help but eavesdrop as he sops water to and from the window.

“...We’re just trying to give the place a face-lift, so it’s not like you have to go too crazy or anything. Just do circles, like you’re giving the wood a massage. I worked construction for a while and got stuck sanding after the other guys realized I was more a mechanic than a builder. I’m grateful they didn’t kick me off the job but a guy can only do so much sanding…”

Castiel smiles at the memory Dean paints, realizing it must be from his time spent with Lisa. Castiel remembers all too vividly what it was like to be that angel, full of power and righteousness and a false sense of entitlement. Dean’s guardian angel, watching his former friend perform a daily routine before downing a double shot of whiskey and crawling into bed to face the nightmares.

Dean seems lighter now, wearing thin t-shirts flecked with dried paint. The muscles of his arms work fluidly under his skin with every stroke of the sandpaper, mesmerizing enough to make Castiel spill a whole washcloth worth of water down his front.

They laugh, and Dean throws him a towel as he sulks away, water dripping down to his shoes.

He’s proud of his own work, however, and the windows let in the sunlight now without a layer of dust choking it out. The stained glass paints a picture of an abstract cross on a hill. He had always appreciated the Protestants’ flair for the vague over the Catholics’ penchant for the morbid.

Mia talks about what she would like to paint above the altar while she sands the pews, looking distastefully at where the dust-covered cross had hung. The wall was primed and ready to be painted, and a ladder leaned against the wall at the ready.

“It has to be something special,” she says, looking away.

The wall stays empty, but Castiel notices that Mia begins to stack up her reserves of blue paint next to the ladder.

 

* * *

 

 

One day, Dean comes back from gassing up the Impala with four bags full of groceries. When Castiel and Mia eye them, he just shrugs.

“Can’t just eat gas station shit forever,” he mumbles.

Mia rises to help immediately, and Castiel goes to follow before feeling a buzz in his pocket. His phone, almost forgotten, rings with Sam’s name showing across the front scene.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Cas.”

“Sam?” He moves out of earshot from the kitchen, seeing Dean empty grocery bags out of the corner of his eye.

“Yeah it’s me. Dean told me you had my old phone,” Sam explains quickly.

“I understand. Is everything alright?”

“Oh, yeah, of course.” Castiel hears the sound of papers rustling. “Just finishing up on a case. I was wondering if you had any new info? On your end?”

“Honestly, no. We have a strong witness, but this is personal to her. We don’t want to push too hard.”

“I get that. Let me know if you need any more help.”

“I appreciate that.” There’s silence on the other end. He takes a chance. “How are you, Sam?”

Sam laughs, an unexpected sound. “I’m doing alright, thanks for asking. How’s--um, how’s Dean?” he asks quickly.

Castiel listens for the sound of Dean and Mia’s voices in the kitchen, pots and pans clanking. “He’s doing ok. Can I ask you something?”

“Of course. Shoot.”

“Were you with Dean when he got the Mark?”

Sam sighs, the sound creating static. “No. I guess he got it around the time we tried to extract that grace from my neck. Lot of good that did.”

Castiel swallows hard. “Dammit.”

“Crowley has the blade. I guess the Mark isn’t too big a deal without it but,” he pauses, “Just keep an eye on him.”

“Sam,” Castiel starts, “I’m sorry this happened to you.”

Sam laughs nervously. “It’s not happening to me, man. You just take care of my brother. Keep your cell charged.”

“I will.”

They hang up a few moments later, Castiel feeling uneasy. He hears laughter coming from the kitchen, ignoring the feeling for the time being.

He walks into the mess of Dean and Mia trying to make burgers. Pretty simple fare, but Castiel eats every last bit of his, especially after watching Dean and Mia try to light the stove using nothing but a match and good timing. Mia mixes Castiel a drink that he’s pretty sure is just cola and grape soda that she insists is an ‘old family recipe.’ Dean laughs when she uses air quotes, mouth full.

Mia leaves shortly after to work the later shift at the library, getting thoroughly teased by Dean that the graveyard shift at a library is only 5pm to 9pm, but leaves with a smile nonetheless.

Dean makes as if he’s going to continue sanding, but only makes it so far as to sit up against an overturned pew. “She’s a good kid,” he says, nodding.

Castiel unrolls his sleeves, playing with the worn cuffs absentmindedly. “She’s not a kid, Dean. She’s 29 years old.”

Dean laughs softly, shaking his head. “You saying I infantilize women?”

Castiel shrugs. “You could take it that way.”

“Nah. You’re right. Put it on the list of things that are fucked up about me.” He stretches his legs out in front of him, the frown returning to his face.

It’s a different frown though. Before, Dean’s frown had been deep, pulling his eyes down, reaching up to his hairline. His sadness had felt more like anger, with heat. Now, he seemed quieter.

Castiel takes a seat next to him, bypassing a large pile of sawdust. Dean stirs and clears his throat, as if just remembering his presence.

“Yeah, so if we get the benches done, get the painting done, and give the rest of the place a good scrub down I think we’ll be good--”

“Dean.”

“Yeah.” He turns toward him, mouth a hard line.

“Thank you.”

Dean raises his eyebrows, smirking with his eyes. “Yeah, well, you know, just getting my mind off of things so no big deal.”

“I know. But I appreciate you staying.”

Dean looks down at his hands, resting in his lap. “Yeah, no problem. I mean, the trail for Abaddon’s gone way cold and things are just… quiet. I’m glad to help you tie up a loose end. God knows we don’t always get that opportunity.”

Castiel smiles, wishing Dean would look at him, but he appreciates the words, all the same.

Dean clears his throat. “So you talk to Mia anymore? About what went down here?”

“No. She will when she’s ready. I think she’s comfortable with us, though.”

“Just, doesn’t feel right interviewing anymore. Playing FBI. I think people saw me with you. When I went for the food run I got a bunch of looks.”

“I only have so much time here.”

“Well, we’ll figure it out.”

_So many promises. Aren’t you guys tired of this yet?_

The voice is quick and no more than a whisper. Castiel palms at the back of his neck, as if he could catch it, but it was already long gone.

“You ok man?”

“Yes,” he answers quickly. “Fine. Thank you for dinner, Dean.”

Dean smiles. “Just a burger. Didn’t even have all my supplies like in the bunker kitchen.”

Discomfort settles over them, thick enough without Castiel saying the words. _The kitchen you banned me from._ He’s not even angry, not anymore, but the thought is a flinch, a habit. He thinks that anger can become a dangerous habit.

They return to the kitchen shortly after. A pile of dishes waits for them in the sink, and they work through them slowly, side by side with their shoulders just barely touching. Mia had insisted on using real dishes instead of the styrofoam set Dean had purchased; something about the environment and nostalgia.

It’s quiet work, punctuated with the sounds of Dean yawning. He moves away as soon as they’re done, taking the warmth of his body with him. Dean plops down on the couch, wishing him good night, and Castiel feels strangely chilled.

He doesn’t go to his bedroom right away. He feels more than awake. Jumpy, and his muscles twitch under his skin. He grabs the trench coat, finding Dean asleep when he passes the kitchen again. His face is relaxed, and Castiel doesn’t want to bother him with his own unexplainable uneasiness. He shoves his arms through the coat, thinking that he’ll go outside, get some fresh air.

The thought of a peaceful walk in the cool spring air doesn’t keep his feet from carrying him to the top of the stairwell.

Darkness stretches before him, crushing as the stairs fade. He had asked Mia what was in the basement, trying to pose the question with casual curiosity, and she had only pointed at the large sign above the staircase reading ‘Social Hall’ before walking away. He knows it should be obvious, but it isn’t, and he can’t ignore the pull for much longer.

The top stair creaks when he takes his first step, and he freezes, listening for sounds of Dean stirring from his sleep. The pull wraps around his wrist and tugs, making him continue. He tries the light switch on his way down, finding it disconnected.

His eyes adjust after a few seconds; less than they should, but enough for him to see. He follows the path of a long hallway, doors lining the walls. Posters, dusty and limp, hang from worn tape.

A draft whistles down the hallway, hitting him in the face and making him stop. He stumbles, kicking an overturned clipboard out of the way. The air feels thin and his chest heaves. His shoulder aches, the pain spreading up to his neck and down to the small of his back. There’s a small patch of ground at his feet that doesn’t look too dusty; he could sit for a moment, get his breath back.

The pressure wrapped around his wrist increases and he shakes his head, continuing on with a small stumble. He swallows hard, throat thick as the presence finally makes itself known.

_Don’t waste time. We don’t have enough._

The voice barely sounds, not even a whisper. It tastes like smoke on his next breath, but the venomous bite is gone. This voice just feels urgent.

_You don’t make any sense,_ he responds before he can stop himself. The hallways stretches out before him, dim and warped from his altered senses.

_She’ll take everything from you,_ it whispers.

_I have nothing to give._

His words are final. No one has use for an empty shell, a broken angel. Not even whispered voices that feel like they belong in a dream. He aches, and on his next step he stumbles in earnest, hands hitting the cold ground and sending a shiver up his arm, half from pain.

_I thought the same thing._

He rests his forehead against the floor, forearms braced and coat pooling around him like a tent. The pressure remains, and it pushes on his chest until he stands upright again.

_Just a little further,_ it continues, voice verging on soothing, compassionate, _I want to show you something._

It pulls him forward, and he can’t react fast enough before his shoulders hit doorframes, his hips hit doorknobs that jut out too far. He winces in pain, but his feet still carry him forward until he’s thrown to the ground again, elbows connecting with concrete this time.

The pressure lifts all at once, leaving behind sweet, cavernous space for his lungs to fill with air. There’s a shelf in front of him, tall and caked with dust and covered in empty jars. In and out, his breath makes an audible sound against his throat.

He looks behind himself, seeing an open doorway with moonlight pooling through, possibly from a hallway window. He takes stock of tables and chairs around him, covered in old paper and broken crayons. A Sunday school classroom, and the old shelf in front of him seems out of place.

He takes hold of it, using it to pull himself upright with a grunt. The jars are empty and clear, but there’s something off about them. The way they are arranged in perfect lines like soldiers and don’t seem to reflect the moonlight coming through the doorway. He runs a hand over them, moving them around, searching behind them for anything malevolent.

He gasps as the pressure takes hold of him again, forcing his eyes wide and his neck back, as if a hand had weaved its way into his hair and pulled back. It whispers in his ear, toxic and mocking this time, nothing like before.

_Don’t blink_.

He does, and in that second when his eyes reopen, the jars are full. Sudden electricity makes his hair stand on end. The jars shine from milky liquid and white, blinding light, throwing shadows that move around the walls like monsters in the night--

He blinks again, the jars are empty, and the pressure gone for good, leaving behind a hollowness in his chest. A layer of dust covers the jars again, leaving no shadows in the dark room. He feels it however; power, fire, sparks, and crackling, unending electricity.

Souls.

“Cas?”

He whips around, his coat almost catching on the shelf before he yanks it free. Dean stands in the doorway, confusion evident even in the dim light.

“What are you doing?” He asks as he stares at the jars with an unbreakable gaze.

Castiel ignores the question, words tumbling from him. “There were souls here once.”

Dean steps closer, his footsteps making the floorboards creak loudly. “Souls?”

“Yes. Stored in the jars.”

Dean steps up beside him, looking at the jars with disbelief, and the beginnings of fear.

“How do you know?” he asks, folding his arms tightly over his chest.

“Souls are power,” Castiel explains, “They leave behind an energy, like static. I can feel it.”

“Yeah…” Dean says quietly, shuffling backwards, “I’m getting it too.”

The room is too dark, and Dean’s face mostly in shadow. In the quiet, Castiel can hear Dean’s heart beating, faster and louder than normal. He stares ahead, head tilted slightly and eyes blank.

“Dean?”

As if on cue, Dean’s face relaxes, his jaw dropping and his eyes fluttering as if a bright light had just been shined in them. He turns to Castiel, looking tired.

“How did you know to look here?” he asks in the same strange and quiet voice.

“I hadn’t been down here yet. It made sense to investigate,” Castiel says cautiously.

“Are you sure that’s all?”

Castiel thinks of the voice; desperate and insisting, pressing on his chest, pulling him toward this room.

“Yes,” he affirms, but recognizes the lie in his own voice.

Dean’s eyes narrow at him, but he doesn’t comment further. Castiel watches as he turns back to the shelf, steps quiet, muffled by dust or his own care.

“Sam told me about this. Except he found a convent full of demon nunns, harvesting souls for Abaddon.” He runs his fingers over the glass, leaving trails in the dust. “I can still feel it, almost. Are you getting that?”

“Yeah,” Castiel says, stepping closer. “Souls are-- they’re everything. They leave behind residue--”

Dean gasps suddenly, pulling his hand away as if from electric shock.

“Shit,” he whispers.

“Are you alright?” Castiel moves to look at his hand, looking for a burn.

“Yup,” Dean says quickly, pulling away and backing up. His eyes are guarded, shrouded by the shadows in the room and something else. He looks away, and Castiel can’t pin it down.

“Did Mia say anything about this?” Dean asks, his voice rough at the edges. “Not sure why you’re not trying to get anything out of her. You wanna close this case or what?”

The words come out clipped and cold, and Castiel is too exhausted to mask the anger he feels in response. “I’m not going to _push_ Mia, Dean. You agreed that she should take her time with it.”

“Fucking Christ, Cas,” he says, rubbing a hand over his own forehead, “I thought the demon was making _deals,_ not harvesting souls.”

“And that means we should traumatize a woman who’s been through hell? For a bunch of empty jars?” Castiel says, his voice rising.

Dean’s face remains smooth with anger. Eyebrows flat, mouth a hard line.

He doesn’t care.

“Are you alright, Dean?”

Dean barks out a laugh, a dark sound. “Don’t you _fucking_ start with that too.”

“You were fine earlier. If this is the energy from the souls--”

“I’m exhausted, Cas. I’m going back to bed.”

“Dean--” he grabs for Dean’s arm, just a small touch to hold him back. His skin is hot before they even touch, and Dean shies away with a hiss, rubbing his forearm where his shirt covers the mark.

“Don’t.”

Dean stays still a moment and randomly, bizarrely, Castiel thinks about the color of Dean’s eyes. They’re green most days, with the slight deviation from differences in light that’s common in humans. The green he remembers, but he doesn’t remember the black, thin and spidery, stretching through the whites of his eyes.

“Dean,” his voice shakes, “You should get away from here. Whatever’s left from the souls, maybe it’s having an effect on the Mark.”

Dean laughs. “Don’t be paranoid.”

“Don’t be stubborn,” he counters.

The laugh disappears as quickly as it was there. “You don’t get it, do you? You’re supposed to be some kind of ancient being, and you don’t even know what’s going on with me.”

Castiel stands his ground. “I know enough. You can control it. You have been.”

“Well maybe I’m exhausted.”

“You’re not tired at all, Dean. Don’t lie to me.”

Time feels different in a room weighted down with the memory of souls, without the ticking of a wall clock. Castiel feels aware of everything, from the dirt sticking to the bottom of his feet to Dean’s rapid heart beat. Heat comes off him in waves.

When it breaks, Castiel feels it in his bones. They rattle when Dean crashes into him, one fist connecting with a shoulder and the other with his face. A human striking him should feel like a feather on stone, but Dean’s hit has weight behind it and he stumbles, legs connecting with a piles of dirty cardboard boxes. He feels the rush of blood to the wound and then dizziness and pain in his neck.

“Dean--”

The next blow is less of a shock and he’s able to throw his hands up and block most of it. Dean pushes through, though, and he uses the space between him to take hold of Castiel and push him to the ground. His hands rendered useless, Castiel’s side connects with the ground first, his ribs protesting from the impact. Dean follows him down, fists raised to connect with Castiel’s face against the concrete floor, but he catches them it time, pushing Dean onto his back and pinning him to the floor with his knee to Dean’s chest.

Dean tries to piston him away with a jerk of his hip, but Castiel presses down hard, grabbing onto Dean’s clawing hands and locking his own around his wrists. His hands are in fists, clenching and unclenching, as if he were looking for something to hold.

Castiel can feel his own heart beating in his chest. Dean struggles beneath him, feral sounds mixed with cursing ripping from his throat. His chest heaves with ragged breath his head thrashes from side to side. His eyes flash, black-green-black-green.

Castiel can feel his own energy, already scarce, draining from the fight. His fingers itch. He knows how to do it. It would be temporary. A bandage over an infected wound. But it would give them _time._

As soon as he lets go of Dean’s wrists, he lets his fists fly, beating on Castiel’s chest and his sides. Castiel ignores it, plunging his hands down to Dean’s face, taking hold of each side, grasping until he’s got Dean’s hair in between his fingers.

It’s a simple trick. It’s about letting go. And he does.

The room fills with light. Castiel can feel the wind in his own hair before everything fades to darkness.  


	6. Chapter 6

Castiel wakes up when the pain grows unbearable. Something pushes against his forehead, and he opens his eyes to swat it away, discovering that it’s the concrete floor. He’s sprawled out, face down.

He pushes up using his hands, a groan retching from his throat when his arms protest the strain. He makes it to his hands and knees, panting, shoulders aching and ears ringing. He can make out Dean, just next to him on his back. Unconscious.

Crawling over to him, he listens intently, hearing a steady pulse coming from Dean’s limp body. He fumbles at his neck, finding the tactile evidence there. He’s alive.

He had been knocked out, but by what? Himself? The memories start to trickle back. The jars, still empty on the shelves, Dean’s chilling shift in mood, the fight, the light--

Dean shifts, just a twitching in his fingers, but Castiel sighs from relief. He sits back on his heels, pushing the sweaty hair back from his forehead. Heat already pours in from the sliver of window. Day had broken without them.

When Castiel stands his legs wobble beneath him, and he grabs onto the corner of a table from balance. He’s not human; he doesn’t feel the aching hollowness of a graceless vessel, but the trick had weakened him, at least for now.

He picks Dean up and over his back without much trouble except for his shoulder muscles screaming in protest. The hallways of the Church basement look different in the day, with sunlight from the Sunday School Classrooms filtering in and mixing with the dust in the air. Had the doors been open the night before?

He bypasses the couch in the apartment kitchen, bringing Dean to the bedroom where lays him out on the bed. He can’t help but stare for a few ticks of the clock; rarely does he see Dean so relaxed, framed by sunlight and the thickness of the air-- he runs his hands through his own hair, turning away.

He sits down, The floor looking as good a spot as any. His eyes still protest the daylight and he closes them, passing out again with his back down this time, one arm thrown over his eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

He walks through the dark, legs steady and moving with enough purpose. He knows where he’s going. His shoes slide easily through the wet grass; it must be early morning.

She had told him to meet her by the tree with an abundance of exposed roots, and he had struggled to not roll his eyes at the dramatics of the situation. No problem though. It’s not his usual style, but it’s not unheard of.

She’s waiting for him, twisting her hands over and over again, pulling a purple striped bandana through her fingers with a swishing noise. He doesn’t want to startle her, making a bit of noise as he walks through the tall grass.

She turns around with a gasp anyway, eyes narrowing when she recognizes him.

 _Good to see you, G,_ she says, her voice falsely happy.

 _Same to you, Angela,_ he hears himself saying. His voice doesn’t quite sound like his own, but he can’t place it, as it he’s hearing it under water.

Angela looks down at her hands, still holding the purple bandana. _I didn’t want--_ she begins, voice stumbling, _I don’t want Daisy to know about this._

 _And she won’t,_ he insists, _It’s not a big deal. You said you wanted this for her._

 _I do!_ Angela shouts, stepping forward, pressing a hand to her chest, _I want this,_ she says quieter.

He shrugs, a smile curling the corners of his lips. _It’s your choice. I’m just a means to an end._

 _Ok,_ Angela says, nodding and swallowing, her throat moving rapidly, _And I get ten years?_

 _Ten big ones._ He runs his tongue over his teeth, growing impatient. _Better make them count._

Angela turns away, trying to cover up the tears in her eyes with her hand. He finds himself feeling annoyed, crossing his arms. When he talks again, however, his voice sounds soothing, sincere. He reaches out, putting a hand on her shoulder.

_Daisy will never know. It’ll just look like an accident. I’m here on His orders, do you think I would lie to you?_

Angela turns around. None of the tears had spilled.

_Let’s do it then._

He steps into his space, noting her shivering with a cool indifference. It is a cold night, and when he kisses her, her lips are rigid.

The scene begins to melt around them, and when he opens his eyes, Angela is gone. His hands hang empty in the air. He stands alone by the tree, the sky turning grey with dawn breaking.

_Castiel?_

He hears the voice, soft and scared, and wants to reach out to it. His hands grasp at open air.

_Please tell me you can hear me._

He tries to respond, but something is clamping down on his throat. He claws at it, choking for air.

_Please tell me you can help me. I don’t know how much time I have left. Please. I’m counting on you to--_

The scene begins to melt again, trees drooping and sky falling around him. Slowly, everything fades to black, pressing down on his eyes and returning him to sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

“Cas.”

He feels himself waking before he opens his eyes. A soft hand pushes hair back from his face.

“ _Cas._ ”

He opens his eyes with a gasp, blinding by the patch of sunlight beating down where he had sprawled out. It’s hot, and sweat pools uncomfortably at the small of his back. Mia kneels beside him, shaking him slightly by the shoulder.

“Are you ok?” Her voice is firm.

For some reason Mia is grimacing, and Castiel realizes that he that he’s clutching onto her dress, fists tight like a vice. He releases her, leaning back on his elbows to sit up.

“I apologize,” he mumbles, head spinning.

“Accepted,” she says with a smile, “How are you feeling?”

“Dean,” he sputters, moving to stand when his head begins to spin, “Where is he?”

“Still unconscious,” says another voice.

Jean stands in the doorway, leaning heavily on her cane, mouth a tight line.

He sighs, meeting her eyes. She raises her eyebrows at the bed.

Mia helps him to his feet, and he finds Dean right where he left him the night prior, face up and hands relaxed at his side. His hair sticks up in all directions and his shirt is rucked up to his ribs, but he looks calm, almost innocent.

“I felt for a pulse.” Mia steps beside him. “I’m not a professional but it seems steady.”

He checks to be sure, two fingers on Dean’s wrist. “Thank you, Mia. I’m sorry you had to find us like this.”

She shrugs. “You looked like you could be sleeping, but I didn’t think you were stupid enough to sleep on the floor.”

He laughs softly, his heart not really in it. Jean comes to stand beside them, her cane thumping on the floor. “If my intuition is right, Dean has been through a lot. We should give him space.”

Castiel nods, following them out to the hallway and closing the bedroom door behind him.

“What happened?” Mia asks when they’re back in the kitchen.

He goes to the coffee maker, praying that it works today.

“Dean and I-- we found something in the church last night.

“Something?” Mia asks, eyes flicking to Jean. They’re guarded.

“Something powerful. It affected us both in different ways.”

“Are you being purposely vague? Or do you think we know something?” Mia says, an edge to her voice Castiel had never heard.

“Mia,” Jean warns.

Castiel shakes his head, scooping some dark grounds into a filter. “No, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to sound accusing.”

“I know,” she says, taking a seat at the table. Jean stays back, leaning against the doorframe.

“Is it working?” Mia indicates toward the coffee pot.

Castiel pushes the start button, relieved when the coffee maker starts to whirr and click. Jean smirks.

“I’m glad. We’re going to need it.” 

Castiel doesn’t respond, taking a seat next to Mia.

“You found them, didn’t you?” Mia asks quietly. “The jars?”

“Yes.”

“They were empty?”

He nods.

Mia sighs, rubbing hard at her eyes. “I wanted to tell you-- before you saw, I mean. Should have known you would find them though.”

Castiel waits, itching to explain, to apologize. Mia looks like she is searching for words, and he stays silent.

“They don’t look like much now, even though they feel like they’re giving off radiation,” she says finally, tucking her hair behind her ears. “They used to glow.”

“Mia,” Jean says from the doorway. “You don’t have to talk about this.” She looks at Castiel. “What happened to _you_? What happened to your friend? Why is Mia supposed to share when you’re keeping your secrets?”

The words sting, and Castiel meets Jean’s eyes, finding them hard but shining. A psychic without any respect for her own powers, always on the fringes of the supernatural but never believing it. The less you dwell on something, the less real it seems.

Mia takes a shaking breath, pulling Castiel’s attention back to her.

“No,” she affirms, “I don’t-- let me explain what happened. Castiel,” she looks at him, “Thank you for not pushing me, but I after I finish, I need you to tell me everything. It’s been a nice few days, but it’s time for me to know.”

Castiel feels uneasy, but presses her on with a nod.

She sighs. “This didn’t happen that long ago,” she says, speaking to her hands in her lap, “Feels like it could be a million years.”

Jean reaches out, putting a hand on her shoulder. Mia touches her fingers, eyes shining. When she look at Castiel again, however, they’re hard with resolve.

“It was a painful time in the church. The old pastor, he had just died in a car accident along with two local teenagers. When my uncle was appointed as pastor, the congregation was slow to accept him. He said it was just their grief.”

“What do you say?”

She smirks, eyebrows shooting up. “Not too many people in Colton think someone with a Puerto Rican accent should be in a position like that, even if it is just a little church in the middle of no where.”

There’s a lifetime’s worth of annoyance in her tone, and Jean watches with understanding.

“It was just a normal service,” she starts again, “I wasn’t feeling particularly interested in service that day, just sitting in the pew to support my uncle. Then the doors to the sanctuary opened, and you strode in and healed someone and said you were God.”

Castiel looks away, blood pounding in his ears and his shoulders aching from his poor posture.

“Then you-- you _tore_ across the country, violently, and for some reason, instead of being scared, people around here felt blessed. They thought they were special,” she says, he last word dripping with disgust.

He voice cracks with her next words. “I thought it was _horrible_. People were dead all over the country and you were just gone but there was some kind of fucked up celebration happening. And then she came here.”

“Susan Wallace?” he asks.

“Gina Fraiser,” she corrects him, “Susan Wallace is a missing woman from Missouri. I only found that out too late.” She shakes her head. “Sometimes I blame her. Stupid, I know it wasn’t her.”

“What did Gina tell you?” Castiel asks.

She looks at him, searching his face as if to memorize it. “She said that she was angel and that you sent her to watch us.”

Castiel’s stomach drops, feeling the swooping feeling that comes with nausea. Dean had insisted that there was no connection, that none of this was his fault, but he had felt it all along.

“That’s--” he stutters, running a hand over his face, “It wasn’t me, Mia. You have to believe me.”

She smiles, the corners of her mouth barely lifting. “I do. There’s no way she could be an angel.”

He wants to tell her that she shouldn’t hope, that angels aren’t what she thinks they are and that they never were, but holds back. “What did she do?” he asks instead.

“Applied for the open secretary position. My uncle also has a day job, and he needed someone to help manage the day to day church business.”

“She got the job?’’

“Of course,” she says bitterly, “She had a lovely resume. I helped my uncle choose, in fact.” She laughs darkly. “Once she started working, she started taking people aside, one by one. She said she just wanted to get to know us all. Give a personal touch. It wasn’t until she tried to interview me that I knew something was wrong.”

Castiel waits for her to continue, counting the ticks of the clock. Jean murmurs her discontent under her breath; something like “conniver” and “thief.”

“She asked about my mother,” Mia says finally. “She died when I was twelve. The doctors diagnosed me with all sorts of stuff after that. Childhood depression, anxiety… Mostly because I had repressed memories of her. I’m only just remembering details again. The little things.” She clears her throat. “I told Gina it was none of her business. Because it wasn’t. And then she told me that she was angel you sent to protect us. To give us everything we deserve.”

“She said she could bring my mother back.” Her knuckles tighten, turning white. “Like nothing had ever happened.”

Castiel sighs, looking down to his lap. “I’m sorry, Mia.”

“Don’t be. I told her to get lost. I didn’t go to church for a while. She must have gotten to other people though. Especially Angela Bagshaw, all the sudden they were best friends, going everywhere together. Angela even got Gina something part time at the hospital. Surprise, she was a nurse too.” She laughs darkly. “And then all the good stuff started happening.

She lists off a number of events. The weddings, the money won, the illnesses cured, all verbatim from the newspaper articles he had read. She talks about some of the people as if they had been friends, some with disgust, and some with indifference.

“I didn’t go to church, but I lived in the apartment because of my Uncle. I heard things,” she continues, “I heard people arguing-- sometimes with each other, sometimes with Gina.”

“What did they say?”

“I’m no expert, but it sounded like some kind of… business deal.” He remembers his dream from the night before. “And Gina intended to collect. They were always asking for more time, but I could never really hear what she wanted. She never said. My father was one of them.”

She looks down, biting her bottom lip. “It was obvious to me, even though it seemed crazy. Gina must have been somehow helping people. Daisy’s illness, all the weddings, the babies born-- it just didn’t make sense that it would all happen so close together. And my father-- winning some kind of local lottery?” she says in disbelief, “He pissed it all away, of course. Gambling, or whatever he would do. It was almost like everyone was in on some kind of secret, and I couldn’t crack it.”

Castiel hears the anger in her voice. She couldn’t save her people, no matter how hard she had tried.

“When did she leave?” he asks.

“About a year after you came. She got a new job, and everyone was so happy for her. We even gave her a going away party.”

Castiel gets up, moving to the side of the couch where the stack of newspapers sit. He finds the one with a cured Daisy Bagshaw on the cover, bringing it over to Mia.

“Is that her?” He points to the blond nurse in the background with the serene but cold smile on her face.

Mia nods, her eyes flicking to him before taking the paper, holding it carefully, as if it could be set off. “Where did you get this?” she asks.

Castiel hesitates. “Jean?”

“It was me, Mia,” Jean says, limping over to sit in the chair next to Mia. She lowers herself carefully, and with a sigh. “I kept all the papers.”

“But-- how?”

Jean shrugs. “Not too many people interested in going into my house. I’m a hoarder, remember?”

“Why would it be wrong for Jean to have the newspapers?” Castiel asks.

“After people started dying, no one wanted to remember this year, when all this good happened. I think, deep down, people know that she did this.” Mia seems to read through the article, even going to the extension on page 4. “Daisy is a nice girl, I’m glad she got this chance.”

“Mia,” Castiel starts, not wanting to lose her now, “Do you know where Gina went? Anything about her new job?”

Mia pauses, still looking down at her hands. “She said it was in New York City, came up with some half-baked dream of wanting to work in New York.”

Castiel nods, storing the information for when he could get in touch with Sam. The phone Dean had given him still sits in his room, mostly unused.

“What happened after she left?”

Mia swallows, lowering the paper. “Time went by normally… and then--people just started to die? It’s bizarre to say, to even think about it that way. Around October last year, Angela was first.” She’s silent for a moment before she stands up, looking towards the direction of the sanctuary.

“I have to get something.”

She bustles out, shoes swishing on the floor. Jean sits back in her chair, her eyes trained on Castiel.

“I hope you’re not thinking of dragging her into any nonsense,” she says.

Castiel looks away, following the path out that Mia had taken. “She’s not a child. She can make this choice.”

“Doesn’t mean there aren’t people who care about her. Don’t get independence mixed up with isolation, that’s a lonely road to go down,” Jean says. Castiel feels his throat constrict with some indescribable emotion before Mia comes bustling back into the room, arms full with strange items.

She sets a hymnal and a simple silver chalice on the table, handling both with a strange reverence. She hums almost silently in the back of her throat and Castiel can feel a mixture of excitement and dread radiating from her.

“The hymnal is mine,” she says, flipping through the first few pages, “I was living in the apartment and-- I made notes. Wrote down some dates. Strange things were happening, and I wanted to keep track. Like here--” she points to a date scrawled in the margins, and Castiel recognizes it from when he had picked the hymnal just a few days before. “This is when I saw her talking to Angela. And here,” another page, “This is when I spied on her. I saw her using this.”

She points to the chalice, and Castiel picks it up, examining it. It’s light and made of cheap metal, but he’s more interested in the red ring staining the inside.

Mia watches him. “You see it, don’t you?”

Castile nods. “Of course.” He glances at Jean but she refuses to meet his eyes. “Do you know what it means?”

Mia shakes her head. “She would talk into it, sometimes she was angry and sometimes she sounded like…”

“Like what?”

“Like a little girl,” she said, with disbelief, “As if she were a little girl talking to her mother or something…” She looks at Castiel. “You’re not saying anything. It’s not good, is it?”

Castiel swallows, tapping his fingers lightly on the table. “Mia, you reacted well when I told you I was an angel.”

“I already knew you were an angel. Jean had figured it out”

“Yes, I know,” he says, looking down at his hands, “This is different. Angels are-- flawed. Incredibly, tragically flawed and we have messed up the world permanently even with the best intentions. But there are things out there that are just evil. They want chaos and they don’t care-- they don’t care who they drag down with them.”

“And you’re saying Gina was one of those things?”

“Gina was a demon,” he says, watching her face fall, “Demons come straight from hell. They take vessels without their permission and--” He stops, words failing him. “Gina wasn’t just any demon. She made deals with people, with your church. She gave them things, in exchange for their souls. Usually these types of demons wait ten years before coming to collect.”

Mia’s eyebrows furrow. “But, it didn’t take ten years.”

“There’s a war going on right now. In hell.” The words spill from him, the whole truth too complicated but the big picture sounding ridiculous to even him. “One of the sides is led by a demon named Abaddon and she voided all the deals that were withstanding. They needed the souls early.”

“What can you do with a human soul?” Mia asks.

Castiel folds his hands on the table. “Souls are energy. Power at it’s purest. Abaddon needs an army of damned souls, and damned souls turn into demons.”

Mia’s eyes widen and Jean sits back in her chair, shaking her head. “So my father… is in hell?”

Castiel looks away, watching the coffee pot fill up drip by drip. “I can’t tell you for sure. But-- yes. It’s a possibility.”

Mia swallows hard, her throat working through the motion, taking a deep breath and standing up.

“Mia,” Jean says, her own voice thick.

Mia doesn’t answer, instead going to cupboard to pull out three mugs. She pours them all coffee, keeping it black for Castiel and Jean, and pouring a small amount of cream into her own. Castiel watchers her hands shake as she walks back over to their table.

“What’s done is done,” she says.

“You don’t have to say that so quickly,” Jean retorts, “You are allowed to be mad about this.”

Mia sets the coffee on the table with a loud _clink._ She lets out a frustrated noise before marching out of the room, her shoes clicking loudly on the floor.

“Jesus Christ,” Jean mutters, standing up slowly. “You gotta figure out a better wording for that one.”

“Is there a wording that would work better? I’d love to hear it.” Castiel can’t help the edge in his voice. He takes a large gulp of coffee, the liquid scalding his throat.

Jean just shakes her head and follows after Mia. A few moments later he hears the door slam and rattle.

He rakes a heavy hand through his hair and sighs, the air tasting bitter. A thin layer of perspiration covers his forehead, despite the coolness of the kitchen. His stomach rumbles when the coffee hits it, protesting its own emptiness. His back aches from carrying Dean up the stairs and his chest feels tight with every breath.

Telling Mia hadn’t been a courtesy. The knowledge of her father’s eternity in hell wouldn’t soothe her heartbreak, wouldn’t help her move on. So many humans relied on the concept of the afterlife, depended on the safety and happiness of the deceased in order to lead productive lives. He had thought Mia could be different, could be indifferent to it. Foolish of him. And selfish.

He walks through the church again, noting the overturned pews, half finished, and the walls, half painted. Mia’s toolbox sits opened next to the altar, paints still intact, presumably where she set it before going to find Dean and Castiel. Had she brought Jean with her to show her what they had done? Had she gone to get her after finding them unconscious?

His head pounds too much to think, and he finds himself back in the bedroom, pulling up a the straight-backed chair next to the bed where Dean still sleeps. His chest rises and falls with steady breath, more alive than he had been a few hours before.

The mark still pulses at Dean’s wrist, the short sleeve t-shirt leaving his arm bare. It’s angry and red and ancient, the jagged lines of it nothing like the elegance of enochian. He reaches out, brushing a finger along the skin next to it, watching the mark undulate and shimmer, as if it had a mind of its own.

He had felt the mark when Dean first arrived, the anger of it, the way it drove Dean’s anger and his purpose. It had faded though, replaced with a softness he hadn’t seen from Dean since his days with Lisa and Ben Braeden. He removed wallpaper and sanded down Church pews and spoke with patience to Mia. He hadn’t minded when their arms touched when they did dishes, or at least didn’t comment on it. He needed that Dean to remain with him, even if his fix was only temporary.

Dean’s fingers twitch by his sides, and his eyes blink open slowly; Castiel draws his hands back. Dean immediately grimaces at the light, sitting up on one elbow and rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. He glances at Castiel, huffing out a laugh.

“You look like shit,” Dean says.

“Same to you,” Castiel retorts, his face pulling into a smile despite his best efforts.

“I get hit by a truck? Feels like it.” Dean shakes his head and looks out to the window. “What the hell happened?”

“What do you remember?” Castiel deflects.

“Well, we went down in the basement and found where the demon was keeping all the souls and--” He scrunches his eyebrows, trying to think, “Nothing. Like the lights went out and I went to sleep.”

Castiel sighs. “I’m glad to hear that.”

Dean sits up, throwing his legs over the side of the bed. “Why? What happened, Cas?”

Castiel shakes his head, looking down at his hands. “I-- I’m still trying to figure it out for myself.” Dean nods. “The souls left behind some kind of energy, it would seem, and there was some kind of interference.”

Dean pauses, confused, before it seems to dawn on him. “With the mark?”

Castiel nods. “Yes. I don’t know what happened but you seemed to leave yourself and--” he stops.

“I attacked you, didn’t I?” Dean finishes for him.

“Yes. I managed to help you disengage and disarm the mark to an extent.”

“Is that why I feel like limp spaghetti?” He asks, massaging his temples.

Castiel nods. “I imagine so. The spell I performed is only temporary, however. You’ll be feeling the full effects again soon.”

“Oh I’m jumping for joy, believe me” Dean starts, then his face falls, “Feels kind of good to have it off my back for a little while.”

“Dean,” Castiel begins, “The Mark of Cain is something even angels don’t completely understand. I--” he pauses, swallowing a lump building in his throat, “I wish you hadn’t taken it on,” he finishes.

There’s a pause before Dean sighs, running a hand over his mouth. “It’s only temporary, Cas. I told you, Abaddon’s gotta be a top priority right now. Stopping this war in hell. We tried taking her apart before, obviously that doesn’t work since anyone could put her back together. We need a permanent solution.”

Castiel doesn’t respond. He wants to express anger, disappointment, tell Dean that he’s worth so much more than the next monster he kills, but the words stop in his throat. The soldier in him stops him.

“What did it feel like?”

“What? You kicking my ass? I’m telling you that I don’t remember--”

“No,” Castiel interrupts, “Receiving the Mark.”

Dean exhales a gust of air. “Hot. Literally. Not much else really. It was more of a slow build. Started to feel it more recently. When you went missing, it helped me go toe to toe with Gadreel. Man, the Mark does wonders when you need to get a job done.”

Castiel nods. “Where is the blade now?”

“Crowley took it. Doesn’t really matter. Sam would have tried to keep it away from me anyway.”

“Sam cares about you.”

Dean shrugs. “Easy to say. He’s got different ideas lately though, seems like. I’m not living with any delusions anymore, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sam wants out, Cas. Can’t believe I didn’t see it before. He had it all. A girl, a home. And then I showed up again and ruined it all. All the family business crap. Just ‘cause it’s right for me doesn’t mean it’s right for him and all that.” He shrugs, “Whatever thing we had, family, whatever, doesn’t matter anymore. Not to him.”

“Your life isn’t a single track, Dean. Your time with Sam might come to an end, but you never stop being brothers,” Castiel says.

Dean pushes off the bed, groaning when his legs have to take the weight. “You sound like a Hallmark card and I’m starving.”

At the mention of food, Castiel’s stomach constricts. Dean looks at him, confused.

“You look like you could maybe use a good meal too.”

Dean waves away Castiel’s offer to drive, getting behind the wheel and looking paler than he had when he woke up. Castiel can’t help but feel relieved; the short trip to the diner allows him to let his eyes fall closed for a moment.

Dean orders them both cheeseburgers and fries and black coffee upon arrival. Castiel feigns annoyance but feels relief at the lack of choice given. They get their food in record time and eat in mostly silence. Castiel doesn’t notice his lack of hunger until the whole plate is empty and a slight pain pulses in his abdomen.

Dean finishes off a fry. “Man, I ordered you food to be polite, didn’t think you’d eat it.”

“Is that a problem?” Castiel asks, not masking the slight edge to his voice as he discreetly rubs his aching stomach.

Dean holds up his hands. “Nope. Not at all. In fact, looks like it put some color back in your cheeks.”

Castiel groans, dropping his forehead to his hands. “I don’t feel well.”

“Dude if you’re gonna upchuck you better take it to the bathroom. People around here don’t need another excuse not to like you.”

Castiel rolls his eyes in response but slides out of the booth anyway, not feeling any signs of nausea but wanting to be safe. Less eyes follow him this time, compared to their last trip to the diner. Dean had been right to give him some new clothes, even if the weather had been his excuse.

He reaches the bathroom and is relieved to find it empty. He splashes some water on his face and finds that he does look better with a full stomach, even if he did over-eat. His eyes are still dull, however, and the dark circles are even more pronounced under his eyes. His shoulders ache as if he’s been carrying something heavy all day, and his feet feel tight in his shoes.

Probably just dehydrated.

He leaves the bathroom and sees that Dean is already paying for their meal at the counter. Castiel thinks of how he had ordered him food, and revels in the kindness of the gesture for a moment before joining him.

It’s a hazy summer afternoon, and people wander aimlessly, sweating through their clothes but not wanting to go back to their equally hot houses. Castiel is thankful that the church stays cool enough, already he’s starting to sweat through Dean’s old t-shirt. He tries not to think too hard about it.

Castiel barely notices that Dean isn’t turning into the Church until they are speeding past it to the narrow highway. Dean explains before Castiel can ask.

“Don’t worry, just going to see if a spot I went to a long time ago is still there. I don’t know about you but I think I need to get out of that Church for a little while.” He turns to Castiel and smiles, and he’s struck by the brilliance of it. There’s no sarcasm, no half-smirk with downturned eyes. Dean smiles with only the standard Dean Winchester playfulness Castiel had gotten use to over the years. He finds himself doing the same.

They drive for a few more miles before Dean pulls into a heavily wooded driveway with the sign "Villa High Park" outside the entrance. Dean parks in an almost deserted lot.

They're in some sort of park, with a playground and picnic pavilions and kids running around while their parents chase after them. The day is winding down, however, and most people are packing up their cars to leave. Dean leads him to a small hut where a man sits behind a counter reading a magazine with a large photograph of a fish on it, looking up at them with his eyebrows raised.

"We need two for a couple hours," Dean says.

The man grunts and disappears into a back room, reappearing with two fishing rods and a small box of fish hooks.

"Need bait?" The man says, ringing them up on the ancient cash register.

"Uh-- yeah," Dean says, hesitating, “Haven’t done this in a while,” he says over his shoulder.

The man hands them a small bag along with their fishing rods without another word before he takes Dean's money and returns to his magazine.

Dean hands Castiel a pole as they walk away. "Humans can be so charming, can't they?"

Castiel laughs, and it comes out as a snort. Dean laughs harder at that and Castiel smiles, his ears burning.

"This way."

Dean leads them to a small pier jutting out into a long lake that looks more like a pond. A sign sticks out of the water reading "No Swimming, Fishing Permitted."

Dean sets up his own pole, tying the hook with stumbling fingers before he seems to remember the process, muttering directions under his breath as if recalling a memory. He takes Castiel's from him to do the same, their fingers brushing a bit in the exchange.

Dean shows him how to cast the line, and after a few tries both their hooks are in the water.

"Am I not supposed to feel sorry for the worm?" Castiel asks after a few moments of silence.

Dean laughs once, his shoulders bouncing a little before he hangs his head. "I guess that's the question, isn't it?"

Castiel shrugs, but smiles in spite of himself. Dean takes a deep breath, exhaling through his nose. A few ducks swim by their hanging feet.

"My old man took me here once, way back," Dean says, looking out over the water. "Must of been a case or a score or something in Colton, but one day he just woke me and Sam up early and said 'we're going fishing' whether we liked it or not. 'Course we were thrilled. Doesn't take much to thrill a ten year old."

"You've been in Colton before?" Castiel asks.

"Yup. Dad never took a whole ton of cases in Kansas. Drank like a fish when he did, but something was different that day. He was sober, for one, even though he had just finished the case the night before and all." He scratches the back of his neck. "Sammy was only five or six, he just ran around the whole time. But dad and I caught a couple fish, found someone to clean them and fry them."

"Sounds like a nice day."

"Yeah," he says, "The fish actually bit then, unlike now."

It’s a peaceful scene, and Castiel doesn’t even mind that the fish aren’t biting. Something about Dean with his feet swinging off a worn wooden pier takes years off of his face.

"Why are you doing this?" Castiel asks.

Dean takes a moment to answer, the words sounding strained when they do come. "To make it up to you."

"You don't have to do that, Dean."

"Alright then to do something other than talk about demons and monsters and angels for once."

“Mia told me everything, while you were unconscious,” Castiel says, “It was what we expected.”

Dean sighs and shakes his head. “So much for not talking about it. Does she know what happened to the demon?”

“She just left, about a year after I came here. Just left as if she was a regular person who got a different job in New York City.”

“And then all the shit hit the fan.” Dean sighs. “Well, I’ll see if I can get Sam onto something as soon as we have cell phone reception again. Hopefully she still goes by Gina Fraiser.”

“Hopefully you killed her when you think you did,” Castiel says quickly, the harsh words out of place in the quiet afternoon.

Dean just nods, turning back to watch his line. Neither of them had felt a pull, not that Castiel was overly sure what he should be looking for if he did.

They return their poles when the mosquitos start biting; Castiel is the first to feel the slight pain. He slaps the insect away, a small bead of blood coming to the surface before he wipes it away. He trips twice on the roots that spider through the dirt paths leading back to the car. Dean takes hold of his arm both times, forehead creasing in worry.

Dean drives as well as he always does, but Castiel can’t help but feel like he’s taking corners a little quicker, slamming on his breaks a little too late, and his stomach protests the movement. He wraps an arm around his abdomen, concentrating on not throwing up, while he foggily hears Dean say something about going to the store to grab them some food for later and a question about wanting to come or wanting to be dropped off back at the church and Castiel can only nod and hope that’s the right reaction.

He feels a third presence in the car, one without any tactile evidence but there nonetheless. He can almost hear whispering; a voice talking loudly with the volume turned down. Dean talks in the background, expecting responses to questions Castiel can barely make out. He’s relieved when they pull into the Church parking lot.

Castiel waits until Dean has pulled away before running to the apartment and throwing up in the tiny bathroom toilet. He grips the edges of the cheap porcelain until his knuckles strain white, mouth tasting like acid. His throat burns and he turns away from the mess in the toilet before he can get sick again. His mouth feels rotten.

He leans against the wall of the tub, breath rattling in his chest.

_Hey Cas._

He starts at the voice, clutching the wall of the tub. His ears prick in the direction of the bathroom door, but the threshold stands empty.

“Where are you?” He asks the empty room, voice shaking.

It’s another minute before he gets a response. _Oh, here and there_ , it laughs.

He struggles to his feet, his legs feeling like putty but wanting to feel less vulnerable.

_Ugly isn’t it, Getting old?_

The mirror above the sink fogs up, as if someone is speaking close enough to leave their breath there.

“What are you doing to me?” he asks, trying to control the way his voice cracks with exhaustion.

Laughing, small and bell-like, echoes off the porcelain. _Don’t you even want to know who I am? Aren’t you intrigued?_

“I’m not some human. I know who you are. I know that you’re doing something to me, Gina.”

 _Me?_ Gina feigns shock. _You did this all by yourself, Castiel. I’m just here to make things a little more interesting. After all, making demon deals is a little dull now that Abaddon’s making direct deposits._

“And whose side are you on?”

_Whoever wins, idiot. Not too hard, when you’re damned either way. I tend to fare towards chaos though, so I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t pulling for Abaddon just a little._

If the demon had a face, it would be smirking, and Castiel remembers the newspapers with Gina Fraiser’s smiling face on it, ugly and distorted on Susan Wallace’s body.

“We’re going to find you,” he whispers.

Laughing again. _Maybe at full power you’d be able to find me, with all your fancy angel bells and whistles, but you’re just not feeling so hot lately are you? Have you told Dean that you haven’t been able to feel your grace since last night?_

Castiel stares in the mirror, watching again as the fog appears and disappears. The presence, the heaviness, starts to lift and he feels something leaving him with it. He slides down the wall to sit on the floor, leaning on the tub for support.

_Just let it go, Castiel. I can make it all go away._

 


	7. Chapter 7

Castiel wakes in his bed, the sound of Mia and Dean arguing in the sanctuary echoing into his bedroom. Nothing hostile; he hears mostly talk about paint color choices. He rubs his eyes vigorously to get the sleep out and notices a small plastic bag at the foot of his bed. Rummaging through it, he finds a small bar of soap, a stick of deodorant, and a small tube of toothpaste and toothbrush to go with it.

The items feel heavy in his hands and he leaves them on the bed to get dressed. His jeans are limp from needing a wash, but he manages to find a clean black t-shirt to pull over his head.

Dean doesn’t comment on the fact that Castiel had been sleeping since six PM the night before. He doesn’t comment on anything, actually, even when Castiel approaches, watching them with a cup of coffee warming his hands, enjoying the surprising coolness of the morning.

“‘Morning,” Dean says, eyes on the walls, “Mia and I finished up the last of the benches that needed sanding earlier, so they just need some finishing. Mia says she needs a bottom coat of primer in the lobby so that she can start painting. Shouldn’t be hard-- you should tackle that today--”

“Dean.”

“I’m gonna do the benches, so lemme know if you need help.”

Castiel takes it as a dismissal, confused my Dean’s cool demeanor, and Mia avoids his gaze as well as he walks by her. He realizes that her avoidance is probably not intentional, however, as she paints an intricate border around the window, tiny shapes of teal and orange using a brush as thin as an eyelash. He watches her for a moment before grabbing a roller brush and a can of paint on his way out of the sanctuary.

The lobby is still in disarray, yellow sheets covered the furniture along with dust. Dean had suggested ripping up the ugly carpet, but ceded that a deep cleaning would suffice as well. Mostly, it had gone neglected. They had finished removing the striped wallpaper, and Castiel lays out a white sheet where he intends to start painting.

He pours paint into a tray and rolls a liberal amount onto his brush, feeling a sense of satisfaction at the sticky, wet sound and the way the white covers up the wall’s imperfections. He hears Dean and Mia’s quiet conversation in the other room, and the gentle hum of the fluorescent lights overhead.

Gina Fraiser had spoken to him last night, somehow. He racks his mind for possibilities. He had never heard of a demon using mind control on an angel, but as she had said with a laugh, he wasn’t feeling much like an angel. He feels dull and drained of energy. There used to be spark of lightning at his fingertips, and now his hands hands ache from gripping the wooden handle of the paintbrush.

He’s thankful that his sleep had been dreamless, but it had also been all encompassing, crippling, and he had barely made it to his bed before collapsing. Picking himself up off the bathroom floor had been a gargantuan task in itself. He tries not to think about it, sipping his coffee and covering the walls in white paint; ignoring the way the blood pounds in his head and the way his shoulders ache from the movement.

When he uses a chair to reach the high corners, the dizziness returns, and he steps down. A hand lands on his shoulder, steadying him.

“Easy, Cas,” Dean says, taking the paint-covered brush from him and setting it in the tray. Their hands brush again with the necessity of the motion.

“I’m fine,” Castiel snaps, turning away as if inspecting the wall.

“Sure,” Dean says, standing back with one hand pulling on his other arm. “You’re fine, and I don’t have any issues with my brother.”

Castiel sighs, turning around to face him. “This isn’t comparable and you know it.” He tries to brush past him, but Dean blocks him.

“Just-- stop. You can tell me,” Dean pleads, his eyes soft, too soft. “You can tell me what’s going on.”

Somehow in that moment Dean had gotten closer, the toe of his boot almost touching Castiel’s socked foot. His hands are open in front of him, as if he asks for something.

Castiel sways on his feet, unsteady and exhausted because he _needs._ Dean’s arms are open and he longs to step between them, take his face in his hands. _I want to help you,_ he would breathe into Dean’s mouth.

Thoughts he only allows himself in the dark of night, and they’re too jarring in the bright light of day.

Dean steps forward, and Castiel backs up without thinking, almost smacking into the wet paint-covered wall. Dean’s hand hangs in midair, confusion wrinkling his forehead.

“Cas…” he says, a plea to his voice.

Castiel swallows. “I want to finish painting the wall, Dean.”

Dean’s face falls, and he finds it ironic that Dean wants to talk as soon as he has lost all desire to do so. He turns, looking down and away until Dean’s presence lifts from the room.

He picks up the brush again, reaching high to cover a corner when a sharp stream of pain shoots down his arm. He drops the brush with a gasp, white primer splattering his pants and landing on the carpet with a splat. Staring at it, he contemplates leaving it there to seep further into the carpet, leaving a permanent stain that no cleaning could ever eradicate. He picks it up instead, tossing it back into the tray before stalking his way outside, wondering how _his_ rattling door slam sounds to those inside.

It is cool outside, and he’s relieved that the inside of the church hadn’t been misleading. His feet carry him through the parking lot, through to the back of the church where it leads to a small forested area. He breaches a few of the trees, breathing in the clean air.

He sits at the base of a maple tree, the scratch of the rough bark not completely unpleasant against his back. He can still see the backside of the Church, ugly and nondescript, as if the builder had used leftover scraps for the part of the Church hardly anyone would see. He breathes steadily now, and his lungs swell and contract with thanks, the motion satisfying.

Mia joins him after a few minutes, walking through the forest with quiet feet and taking a seat at her own tree across from him. He feels exhausted at the prospect of talking, and is thankful when she starts.

“I have trouble talking to people too,” she says, pulling a knee up to rest her chin, “I used to come out here after services when I was a little girl. I loved Church but I didn’t want to make the rounds talking to all my family’s friends afterwards. People kissing me who I barely knew or talking about how cute I was or how much I had grown. All seemed so useless to me. My Mama let me go, always.” She smiles to herself.

Something about Mia’s smile, the way her lips perk up at the corners, sends a warmth through him unlike anything he had ever felt. “What was she like, your mother?” he asks.

“She was kind. Tall, unlike me and my father. She used to wear her hair in a long braid, and would tickle my nose with it until I laughed.” She spreads her arms out in estimation of its historical length. “She always spoke Spanish at home. It’s the only reason I still remember it.”

Castiel smiles at the memory painted. Mia continues, a frown starting to form.

“My father had a temper when he drank. She never yelled back, and I wish she had. I wish I had. Things were different, then.”

“You were young, Mia,” he says, watching as she draws in the dirt with her fingers.

She shakes her head, laughing softly. “You’ve adjusted well, Castiel. That’s exactly the sort of thing humans say.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that, so he waits until Mia gathers her thoughts again, lost in the designs of her own making. He can’t help but be impressed by her total and complete stillness, her isolated movements, and thinks that he won’t ever met a human like Mia.

“I don’t know you and Dean very well,” she says, “But I always remembered something about you from that day when you came to us.”

“What was that?” he asks.

“How sad you were,” she says, looking at him finally. “That-- that sounds childish I know. But I could feel your pain, only because it was so big. Like you were consumed with it.”

Castiel takes a deep breath, remembering suddenly the feeling of thousands of souls inside of him, writhing and pulling at his vessel, and toying with his mind for the hell of it. Words that sliced at his insides as much as their claws. They had known everything about him in a second.

He exhales, feelings his own hands shake where they’re clasped around his knees. “What you saw-- it was a distortion of myself. Mostly what you saw was agony, but it came with power and I had to use it. Had to get it out somehow.”

Mia nods. “The power you’re talking about-- was it souls?”

Castiel pauses, knowing the weight of words, the feeling of Jean’s disapproval, but Mia wasn’t a child, and she deserved every truth he could give.

“Yes. Not human souls, but monsters. It was a mistake. One of many.” He looks down, scratching at the dirt, watching the half-moons of his fingernails fill with dirt.

“Did you die?”

“Yes. For a little while.”

“Dean found you.”

“After some time, yes. I didn’t recognize him at first.”

Mia whistles low. “I’m guessing you guys have a long history.”

Castiel smiles. “Not as long as you’d think, in terms of time. But it feels like a lifetime, or how I guess a lifetime would feel.”

They’re silent for a moment, and Mia gets up, brushing off her bare thighs and the back of her dress.

“Mia?” Castiel asks, hesitant.

She looks at him expectantly.

“Is there a reason why you wear the same type of dress all the time?” The question is out before he can stop it, and he can feel how prying it sounds, verging on rudeness.

Mia only laughs, holding out her arms unapologetically. The sun streams out from behind her, swirling through the pollen in the air.

“I don’t like to feel uncontained. I like the feeling of another person’s arms around me, but there aren’t many people left who I want hugging me. So, a tight dress is a good substitute, for now.”

Castiel nods, his embarrassment lessening from her candid explanation. She holds out a hand, and he takes it, allowing her to pull him to his feet. His legs are still weak under him, but he feels rejuvenated, somewhat.

 

* * *

 

 

Mia won’t let them get diner food that night, and instead whips up a quick pasta dish with garlic and an entire stick of butter. She moves around the kitchen with ease, and Castiel remembers with a jolt that it used to be hers. She shoos away offers to help, and Dean and Castiel sit in slight awkwardness at the table, relieved only by Mia’s storytelling.

Her words flow naturally, and she speaks lightly of heavy subjects. She tells them about the woman Castiel cured of blindness, Ruth McIntyre.

“She wasn’t a particularly _nice_ person,” she says, giggling slightly, “She used to feel my head and tell my mother that my hair was ‘too coarse for a nice little girl.’”

Castiel grimaces. Dean scrolls through something on his phone, his eyebrows furrowed.

They sit down to eat in no time, and Mia laughs when Castiel inhales his, forgetting how much he had loved the taste of pasta when he was a human. Even Dean enjoys his, despite the lack of meat. Mia muses that you _could_ make it with chicken, but wrinkles her nose at the prospect.

Mia leaves within the hour, citing that she needs more blue paint, leaving behind an awkward silence in the kitchen. Luckily, with dinner comes dishes to clean, which keeps Castiel’s hands busy while Dean sits at the table, flipping through the stack of newspapers with a lazy indifference. Castiel sees a flash of his own headline, the grainy picture mocking him even from a distance.

Mia had brought a bottle of orange scented dish soap and he uses it liberally, enjoying the way his head spins from the decadence of it. He places the last plate on the dish rack.

“Did you get the bag I left you?” Dean asks, breaking the silence.

Castiel is confused before he remembers the small bag left at the foot of his bed full of soap and toothpaste and other toiletries. He nods while rinsing the sink.

“Thought it might help you feel better,” Dean continues, “Or worse. Either way really.”

Castiel laughs at that, feeling the charge in the air relax.

“I appreciate it, Dean,” he says, drying his hands on a worn dish towel.

“No problem.”

Dean checks his phone, squinting at the screen and sighing before pocketing it. Castiel notes that he doesn’t often look at his phone without a pained expression lately. He replaces the dish towel on the hook behind the sink, joining Dean at the table.

Dean looks at him, clenching and unclenching his fist. He talks after a few moments of silence.

“Mia talks about this stuff so casually.” He shakes his head. “It just-- it wasn’t that long ago, you know?”

“My betrayal?” Castiel offers, trying to keep his voice neutral. He couldn’t be angry at Dean, not for this.

“Jeez,” Dean huffs, wiping his hand across his mouth. “I’m not holding this shit against you anymore Cas, it was just--”

“Horrible?”

Dean laughs, the sound hollow. “Sam and I-- we were pretty unsavory then too, working with Crowley and all that shit.”

Castiel looks down at his hands, feeling exhaustion deep within his bones. His muscles ache, setting off a pounding pain in his temple. The taste of bile lingers in his mouth.

Dean doesn’t seem to notice his discomfort, thankfully. He looks out into space, speaking quietly as if to himself.

“I’m sorry, Cas.”

“For what?”

Dean smirks, standing up to walk to the counter. He pours himself a cup of coffee, sipping it black and steaming right away.

“For being… messed up.” He sets the mug down, running a hand through his hair. “For not being-- shit-- for _never_ being a good friend to you.”

Castiel’s brow furrows, his chest tightening. Somehow, he doesn’t think it’s related to his other ailments. His fingers itch; his body wants off the chair, but he stays rooted.

“Dean.”

“No, don’t--” Dean’s hands fall by his side, blush creeping up his neck through the collar of his shirt. “Don’t fucking tell me that it’s ok, that I shouldn’t apologize-- I turned the only friend I’ve ever had out on the streets and--” He stops, turning away to grip the counter until his knuckles turn white.

Castiel stays silent as instructed. He traces the planes of Dean’s face with his eyes, from his temple to the tense line of his jaw. Dean is angry, and trying to control it. Castiel feels helpless, weighed down by exhaustion. A tiny crack appears in the countertop where Dean grips it, almost invisible.

“I thought I was over it, everything that happened with the souls,” Dean says quietly, eyes averted, “It’s not easy.”

Castiel stands, walking to be beside him at the counter. “It’s not easy for me either, Dean,” Castiel says, “I was a monster, no better than the things you kill-- and you saved me.”

Dean huffs out a laughs, more of a forceful exhale.

“Saved. That what they’re calling it now?”

“You tried,” Castiel says, grasping Dean’s shoulder and pushing enough to make him face him. “You tried to bring me back, even after I tore down the wall in Sam’s head and ruined everything. You were going to forgive me, weren’t you?”

“Obviously, I have.” Dean says, face blank.

Castiel pushes, sensing the imminent shutdown. “But in that moment, you were going to forgive. You had me by the arm and were taking me back to Bobby’s house.” He let’s his hand fall, shaking his head. “Unless you were planning on killing me--”

“Christ Cas, _no--_ ”

“Then you must have wanted to save me, unless I’m mistaken. We’ve both made so many mistakes, but we made the right ones when--”

Dean throws up his hands, interrupting him. “What? When it counts? If you say that so help me God, Cas--”

“I was forced to kill you a _thousand_ times Dean, I know what it means to make the right choice _when it counts._ ”

The words are out before he can stop them, terrifying in their randomness. His breath shudders in his chest and he can’t look Dean in the eye, not without seeing blood run from it, or bruises blooming on the side of his face. Naomi had pushed him until he couldn’t hear the way Dean had begged; he could only hear her voice.

Dean’s breathing, harsh and quick, brings him back.

“What do you mean, Cas?”

“Naomi,” he says after a moment, the name carrying undefinable weight, “Before I stole the angel tablet, last year, she tested me. She made me kill you over and over again, until I could do it without hesitation.”

Dean sighs, the warm air ghosting across Castiel’s neck and into the collar of his shirt. “This must be what therapy feels like,” he mutters, looking down and to the side.

Castiel doesn’t laugh. “I can’t recall the last time we spoke about anything, Dean. Not really.”

Dean looks up, meeting his eyes.

“That’s fair,” he says, “I mean, if we’re sharing, I did ask you a question back then. Never did get an answer.”

“What question?”

Dean scratches the back of his neck, breaking eye contact. “It’s just that-- you were beating on me so hard, what did break the connection?”

Castiel laughs to himself, watching as confusion blooms onto Dean’s face. He hadn’t been lying then, he truly hadn’t known what had stopped him in the middle of Naomi’s mind control. The truth had come to him while riding a bus through the mountains, the iPod of another passenger blasting classic rock loud enough for him to hear. With the truth came the realization that Castiel could never again be a servant of heaven, not as long as he had Dean Winchester to protect.

“It was you.”

The words are simple, obvious, and Castiel isn’t so foolish as to think that they weren’t expected. Dean starts to fidget as soon as they are spoken; a swipe of a hand across his mouth, a sigh, a muttered _Jesus Christ_.

He’s already halfway pulled away, avoiding Castiel’s eyes and turning towards the table. Castiel moves with him.

“You told me that you needed me,” he says, searching out Dean’s eyes.

“Yeah well you were wailing on my face so I had to get creative.”

“I couldn’t hear anything. Just the sound of my own struggling and the orders from heaven. But I heard you--”

Dean moves towards the fridge, but Castiel cuts him off, standing between him and the handle. “I heard you above everything else. If I could take it all back--”

“It wasn’t you, Cas,” Dean whispers.

“Yes, I know.” Castiel pauses, swallowing hard and breathing deep to calm his speeding pulse. “My point is that I dropped the blade because I heard you. I heard your voice and it was the only voice that sounded right. I knew you could never be my enemy.”

“Cas.”

It’s only his name, but the weight of it sits in the air.

“Please,” Castiel starts, looking away, “Don’t pity me. Don’t say it again if you don’t mean it anymore. Don’t pray to me and say _you need me_ … I’ll just believe you.”

Castiel becomes aware of the clock ticking, the smell of cheap coffee in the air, and the drip of the water from the faucet. It soundtracks their breathing, stretching out the time before Dean’s next words.

“Cas,” he says again, lifting a hand and lowering it before letting it settle on Castiel’s forearm. “You can’t just-- _say_ this shit.”

“It would hurt more not to.” The words come out shaking, distracted by how Dean’s fingers lightly trace up and down on his arm.

“Mhm,” he hums, thoughts reflecting behind his eyes.

Castiel can only watch him, acutely aware of the weight on his arm. The gesture is inexplicably tender, calming his heartbeat and soothing the ache in his muscles, and he longs to reciprocate. He raises his own hand, slowly letting it come to rest in the softness of Dean’s hair, carding through it slowly. Dean leans back into the touch, eyes fluttering shut.

But it breaks. Dean’s hand falls back and he steps away, leaving Castiel’s hand hanging.

“Yeah, so, just don’t worry about it. I’m over it--we’re, we’re good.”

He’s gone within the minute, picking up his jacket from the back of the chair. Castiel is left alone in the drafty, humid church, counting down the seconds until he hears the front door slam.

 

* * *

 

 

The longer Dean is gone, the more panic Castiel feels. He takes slow breaths, in through the nose, out through the mouth. His lungs feel dead, desperate for oxygen but unsure how to use it. The church looks messy, and he walks around in a fog, picking up spare bits of wallpaper and tidying up messy corners. He wonders if Mia intends to return tonight and work more. He wonders if Dean intends to return at all.

The answer comes almost an hour later when Mia walks through the doors with plastic bags full of paint and a large flood-light intended for indoor use.

“The lights in here are too weak for painting after dark,” she says in place of a hello, pulling the cone-shaped light from the box, “Help me set it up?”

If she notices his panic, she doesn’t comment on it. He feels his heart calm at her simple request, and nods before taking the box from her hands.

He finds an outlet while she unpacks the paint from the rest of her bags. Red and yellow, he recognizes for the rest of the window borders, and more blue. Her painting of the ocean wave is done, and she stacks the blue up near the altar.

“You have any plans for the altar?” he asks as she rolls out her brushes.

“A few,” she says, selecting the thinnest brush for the window border, “I’m trying to decide which is more appropriate.”

“Do they all involve copious amounts of blue paint?”

She smirks. “Funny. It just so happens they do. One of my ideas is to continue the wave to the altar.”

“And the others?"

“Aren’t fully formed yet, to be honest,” she finishes for him.

He takes it as a cue to stop questioning her, and concentrates on assembling the light. It comes with a flimsy plastic stand that he props against the window, trying to find the best angle to bathe Mia in light. She gives him a thumbs-up when he gets it just right. It’s a ghostly white light, contrasting with the warm yellow of the church lights.

“My mother hated this Church,” Mia says after a few moments, brush hovering in the air.

Castiel sits in a pew behind her, waiting for her to continue.

She paints a shape, continuing, “I shouldn’t say that. I was young, and she never said anything specifically to me. She always smiled at everyone and brought food to potlucks… but people looked at us strangely, probably because of her accent. They smiled and patted my head, but they only gained sympathy for me after she died, as if we needed a tragedy to make us human.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel finds himself saying, the words meaningless.

“Don’t be. I just want you to understand, why it’s hard for me to justify helping these people sometimes. But,” she pauses, finishing a row, “Angela didn’t deserve to die. None of them did. It wasn’t Gina’s call, and yet she made it.”

Castiel watches her hand, the repetitive motion that comes with creating a pattern. “We know this isn’t black and white, but what about you? Gina hurt you when she took your father, don’t you deserve closure?”

She stops, lowering her hand and turning to look at him. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“Try not to always think of yourself last, Mia.”

“You and Dean should try that,” she replies after a moment.

“Dean and I?”

“Yes. You two. With your lingering glances and five word conversations.”

Castiel shakes his head, looking away. “Nothing good comes from Dean and I talking.” He thinks of Dean storming away just a few hours ago, the touch of his hand still burning on his arm. “It’s better that way.”

Mia shrugs, turning back toward the window. “It’s none of my business.”

He’s about to correct her, tell her that she is welcome to discuss anything with him, when the door slams in the lobby, rattling the foundations.

“Cas!”

It’s Dean’s voice, but it sounds different. Thicker, somehow.

He walks into the sanctuary, hands on his hips. “Hey there, Mia. Long time no see.”

He hides it well, but Castiel can hear it. The slight slurring of his words, the way he shuffles in his walk.

“That’s all you,” Mia says to Castiel, turning back to her painting.

He stands, walking over where Dean stands, a wicked smile on his face.

“Where have you been?” He tries to keep his voice level.

“Turns out this town’s got one decent bar, can’t say they had my favorite whiskey but it did the job.” He leans against a pew, rubbing his forehead. “I owe you one, Cas.”

“Why is that?”

“Your little spell means I can get drunk again. Still’s a challenge… mind you.”

He stumbles, his hand slipping against the pew. Castiel moves to help him, shocked when Dean pushes away.

“Just-- don’t.”

“Dean,” Castiel starts, holding up his hands in surrender, “You need to lie down.”

Mia packs up behind him, placing her paints back into the toolbox.

Dean looks ready to protest, face screwed up and hard to read in the shadows. He nods, rising up to his feet.

Castiel nods goodbye to Mia as they pass, meeting her eyes. She offers a sympathetic smile before they disappear into the apartment.

Dean stumbles again before they make it to the kitchen, catching the toe of his boot on the door frame and falling to the ground. He breaks his fall with his hands, groaning and laughing in the same breath. Castiel stoops down to help him.

“Feel like a teenager again,” he slurs, “Used to steal my old man’s booze when he went out--”

Castiel takes hold of his arm, bracing it against his shoulder to pull Dean to his feel. His body aches in protest at the added weight. He walks them over to the couch, lowering Dean until he flops back against the worn pillows.

Dean grabs his wrist before he can walk away. Castiel looks at him: face flushed, eyes wild but _bright_ and finds that he can’t be angry. Dean looks alive, more than he has in weeks.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says, the smile fading from his mouth. “I shouldn’t’ve left-- not when-- _shit._ ”

Castiel sits, crossing his legs on the floor. Dean still holds onto his hand.

“I’m glad you’re here, Cas. I’m glad _I’m_ here.” he says, releasing his hand. Castiel misses the touch immediately, but Dean only moves to touch the side of Castiel’s face instead. “I’m so messed up,” he repeats his words from earlier. His fingers barely graze his skin and the tips of his hair, but Castiel feels the warmth of his hand. He leans into it, and Dean threads his fingers through the hair on the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

Castiel feels his breath against his lips, tainted with the smell of alcohol, but still welcome.

“I’ve wanted to-- shit-- I’ve wanted to for a long time, Cas. Wasn’t just today,” Dean barely whispers. “Go ahead.”

It would be easy. Castiel could lean in an inch and Dean would be kissing him. He could lean in closer and press him into the pillows of the couch, carding one hand through his hair while the other searched for soft skin to touch.

He pulls away with a sigh, letting Dean’s hand fall.

“Go to sleep, Dean.”

Castiel gently maneuvers his arm so that it rests on the couch, getting to his feet. Dean looks up at him, but his eyes appear glazed over, as if he doesn’t truly see him. They fall shut a few moments later, his chest rising and falling with even breath.

Castiel sighs, walking from the kitchen to the sanctuary. Mia’s light still shines near the window, her border left unfinished. He switches it off, crossing back to the apartment and to his bedroom. He collapses on the bed, suddenly exhausted, as if Dean’s touch had drained him. His eyes fall shut soon enough, his sleep blissfully dreamless.

 

* * *

 

 

The rustling of plastic wakes him, followed by several loud _thunks._ He sits up, peering over the edge of his bed. Somehow, he had kicked the plastic bag from the foot of his bed to the floor, its contents spilling out into view. He eyes the mundane items with disdain, their presence mocking him.

He hears stirring in the next room, the sounds of Dean getting out of the shower and the faucet running. He rubs his eyes, feeling dingey; his clothes are limp from sweat and the top of his head itches. Footsteps sound from the bathroom, and he shuts his eyes when they pass the doorway to his room.

Castiel gathers the items without thinking too hard on it, deciding to take a quick shower.

He tiptoes to the bathroom, managing to get there without drawing attention to himself. Once inside, he locks the door, placing his bag of supplies on the sink.

He unwraps the bar of soap and the brand new toothbrush, setting the latter on the counter for later. The shower lever refuses to cooperate, interchanging between scalding hot and freezing cold from the lightest touch. The temperature he does find is far from satisfying.

He steps under the spray and washes himself quickly, enjoying the sharp scent of soap. Showers had been enjoyable as a human, when he could get one. Admittedly, his best shower had been at the Men of Letters Bunker. The water pressure alone.

He doesn’t stay in long, finding a thin towel to dry himself. A pair of Dean’s jeans hang out of his bag, and he pulls them on followed by a deep blue t-shirt from the bottom of the bag.

Brushing his teeth is more painful that he remembers. The bristles are new and hard against his gums, no matter how much water he runs over it. Regardless, the thin film that had gathered on his teeth disappears as he continues to brush, the motion repetative. He finds the toothpaste to be unpleasantly sweet. Spearmint had never been his favorite.

He hears footsteps approaching the bathroom, but continues to clean his teeth. Dean comes to stand in the doorway after a few moments, and Castiel doesn’t turn to look at him. He brushes harder, tasting blood along with sugar.

“Cas.”

He spits. It’s red along with blue. He rinses his mouth out with lukewarm water before bracing his hands against the sink, still avoiding Dean’s face.

“How do you feel?” Castiel asks, not expecting a response.

Dean’s presence feels soft, similar to when he had been drunk and lacking the heat that usually came from the Mark.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says, relaxing against the doorframe, watching Castiel’s reflection.

Castiel watches the reflection in the mirror, trying to see what Dean sees: Pale, sallow skin accented with dark circles under bloodshot eyes. Veins stand out bright green against the skin of his neck and arms. He looks as if _he_ had been the one drinking.

He feels a light touch to his shoulder, and it’s Dean turning him away from the mirror. His hand is timid, as if he asks for permission. Castiel keeps his expression neutral, unchanging, instead concentrating the softness of Dean’s face.

“You-- what you did before in the basement, it drained you, didn’t it?” Dean asks, “When you dampened the effects of the mark?”

Castiel sighs, the sound rattling in his chest.

“Not completely,” he explains, “I just feel… Let’s just say I would rather be human than this.”

Dean tightens his hand. “You-- you weren’t breathing.”

Castiel’s brow knits together in confusion. “What?”

“The other day. After we went fishing and I went to the store, when I came back you were sleeping, but you weren’t breathing.”

“And?”

Castiel knows he’s being difficult, but Dean doesn’t show frustration.

“I thought you were dead,” he says quietly, “I noticed after a minute, obviously you were fine. But it was strange, it was so quiet. It’s why I fought with you last night. Couldn’t take seeing you like that. And the drinking… it was just a jerk reaction.”

Castiel’s stomach tightens. “I didn’t realize. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t-- _fucking_ apologize. I’m just,” Dean stops, looking up to meet Castiel’s eyes. “I was trying to tell you that I care about you, Cas. Last night, that is.”

“You were drunk,” he whispers.

“I wasn’t _that_ drunk,” Dean laughs, his smile fading just as quickly as it came as his hand tightens. “And I’m not drunk now.”

“What difference does it make?”

Dean licks his lips quickly, looking down to the side before meeting Castiel’s eyes again. “You know I’m no good at this, Cas. But you can’t just go using up your life force to keep me sane. I need you here.”

 _Need._ The word sticks in Castiel’s mind again, except this time there’s nothing to pray for, no dire circumstance in need of stopping. He had asked Dean to stop saying it, but the words curl around him anyway, settling where his hand sits on his shoulder.

Words catch in his throat, thick and jumbled by his own exhaustion. He moves instead, and finds it odd that he isn’t embarrassed to put a hand on Dean’s neck, moving it back to thread his fingers into the soft hair there. He steps forward, moving slowly as if through water, pressing one hand to Dean’s chest to push him towards the wall. Dean lets him, moving easily and never turning his eyes away. He places a hand over Castiel’s, instead loosening his grip so that their fingers can lace together.

Castiel thinks of their fight the day before, the harsh words spoken about the past, and hesitates. Dean seems to sense it.

“I’m still mad at you,” Dean says, almost reading his mind, his breath warm and close against Castiel’s cheek.

“Ok.”

“You can be mad at me too.”

Castiel waits before answering, reveling in the way Dean gets closer by the second, resting his forehead against his and letting his eyes fall shut.

“Ok.”

The clock ticks loudly from the kitchen, and Castiel thinks about what could be going through Dean’s mind. The struggle, the years that lead to a point like this.

He moves slowly because of it.

The first touch of their lips is strange; dry and warm and too short. They break away, and Dean’s eyes widen, almost with innocence. He slides a hand up from Castiel’s shoulder to his neck, cool and soothing without a hint of pressure. There’s no desperation, and Castiel knows he’s being given opportunities to stop, to pull away and pretend like it was all a misunderstanding.

Far from moving away, Castiel feels himself open up, allowing Dean to guide him further into the bathroom until the sink makes contact with his back. Dean braces one hand against the sink while the other drifts up, fingers carding through his hair, mussing it slightly.

Castiel sighs, and something inside him releases with the simplicity of Dean’s gesture. He had lived a life where violent touch was the norm and tenderness was rare. Warmth spreads from his head to his fingertips. His hand gravitates towards Dean, grasping at his shirt and pulling until Dean leans forward.

This time, when their lips brush together, Castiel leans into it.

Dean wraps his arms around him, lips parting with an exhale and pulling him away from the sink and flush against his chest. The kiss stays slow, just a meeting of lips, leaving Castiel’s stomach in loose knots. He grasps at the hair on the back of Dean’s neck with both hands this time, tilting his head to deepen the kiss. Dean moans, a breathy sound that goes right into Castiel’s mouth, and he doesn’t think they could ever be close enough. He tries anyway, curving into him with his legs and hips and arms tangled while he moves to kiss at Dean’s jaw, enjoying the slight burn from his stubble.

Castiel kisses him for every hour they’ve ever been apart, every time he’s left Dean behind without a word. It feels like safety and for the first time in a while, he _wants._ He longs to make a home without stress and silence and worry. He wants to hear Dean moan again.

Dean slides a hand between them and pushes, breaking off the kiss with a soft inhale.

“We’ll-- we’ll work it out,” he stammers, eyes wild, “There’s got to be a way to get your grace back. _Your_ grace, not some secondhand--”

Castiel steals the words, surging forward and kissing them right out of Dean’s mouth. The water runs and runs, almost drowning out the rushing in his ears. 

 


	8. Chapter 8

Dean finishes staining the pews with a dark varnish the next day. That night, he sleeps in the same bed as Castiel.

It’s a tight fit, and Dean mumbles something about being ‘too old for this,’ but once they shove the bed against the wall it becomes bearable. Dean faces the wall, laying on his side for the necessity of it rather than the intimacy. Still, he doesn’t object when Castiel presses close, wrapping one arm around his waist and the other under his neck.

“Anyone ever tell you you’ve got really sharp elbows?” Dean asks, voice muffled by his pillow.

Castiel laughs. “I can’t say anyone has.”

Dean’s quiet for a moment, and Castiel thinks that he’s drifted off before he speaks again.

“I heard you-- the other day. The nightmares again.”

Castiel sighs, burying his head in the juncture between Dean’s neck and shoulder.

“I get them too,” Dean explains softly, “Nothing to worry about.”

Castiel doubts the accuracy of Dean’s sentiment, but appreciates it either way. He recalls a time when his nightmares were dimmer, but ten-times more terrifying.

“I used to get them all the time,” he says, “When I was--” he stops, the word caught in his throat.

Dean seems to understand. “I figured. Comes with being human, and you can’t go through what you’ve gone through without something left behind to scare you.”

Castiel turns, flipping onto his other side. The bed is not comfortable. His hip aches from a displaced spring and his arm is almost numb. Dean turns too, hands hesitating against his back. Finally, Dean mimics his movements from before, gathering Castiel into his arms.

Castiel feels the warm press of lips on the back of his neck, kissing gently along the hairline, barely making a sound. He leans back into it, shivers running down his spine from the disbelief that it was all really happening, that he could feel happiness and terror within the same moment.

“We need to leave here soon,” he says after a few moments.

Dean’s face moves across the back of his neck, and Castiel recognizes the motion as a nod.

“I know.”

“A few more days.”

“Just until Mia’s painted the lobby.”

“Ok.”

“Shit! Those we’re my ribs, Cas.”

Despite his displeasure at being elbowed in the ribs, Dean pulls him closer and Castiel revels in the headiness of it, the sheer weight and meaning behind having Dean’s arms around him. The words weren’t coming easily, not to him and not to Dean, but for now it seemed that holding each other spawned the least amount of tension. He closes his eyes, and lets himself drift off again.

_She’s here. And so am I._

Castiel hears the whispered words, half-asleep, Dean’s arm slung over his shoulder.

 

~

 

If Mia notices the change, she doesn’t mention it. He does see her squint at the small touches they share; a shoulder grasp here, a trailing of fingers down an arm there, it all adds up. She’s smart, but it doesn’t seem to matter. They continue on.

They’re in the lobby moving furniture so that the carpet can be cleaned when Jean visits one more time, leaning heavily on her cane and looking paler than Castiel had ever seen her.

Mia rushes to her, leading her over to a chair.

“What’s wrong?” Mia asks, eyebrows drawn together.

“Something feels-- wrong. Usually I can ignore it but today I--”

“You can’t,” Dean finishes for her.

Jean looks at him, nodding slowly. “Whatever damn thing you called it, in the Church. I don’t know how but the damn souls or whatever’s left behind is driving me _crazy._ ”

Castiel feels pity, pity for a woman with powerful psychic powers but never wanted them, ignoring them until it’s too hard to do. She sits back in the chair, letting her eyes fall shut.

“I didn’t come here for that, however,” she starts again, her voice steady this time. “I came to see how things were going. I wanted to see your paintings.” She smiles at Mia.

Cas feels Dean’s hand land on his arm, steering him away and to the other end of the room. “Let’s give them a minute,” he mutters.

Castiel nods but still looks back at them, watching as Mia helps Jean out of the chair, helping her walk into the Sanctuary and out of their sight.

He helps Dean move a couch from the lobby to the small lean-to to the side of the building, ignoring the pain in his legs and back in favor of whatever angelic strength he still had. Dean looks suspiciously at him once they set it down, leaning against it.

“Let’s take a break,” he says.

Castiel rolls his eyes but sits on the arm of the chair, trying to mask the way his chest was heaving for want of breath.

“I told you I could get it on my own,” Dean says.

“A whole couch, Dean? Even you--” he stops, looking up at Dean and finding his face not condescending, but worried. “I’m sorry. I do feel alright, if you believe me.”

“I believe you.”

Dean stands again and walks back toward the lobby, and Castiel follows behind.

They’re about to move an armchair when Jean reenters the room, approaching them slowly. Mia watches from the doorway, her eyes looking wet.

“Well, this is goodbye, I’m afraid,” She says, pursing her lips and looking at him with her piercing brown eyes.

“Goodbye?” he asks.

“I’m going to stay with my sister a little ways north of here. Get away from the town a little bit. Too much chatter going around.”

“About me?”

“About everything.” She doesn’t explain, and Castiel doesn’t press her. “Just promise me that whatever you do, whatever happens with all this nonsense, you don’t let Mia get hurt.”

“With all due respect Ma’am,” Dean starts. Jean holds up a hand to silence him.

“No respect needed. I know Mia can take care of herself, but I don’t want her to get hurt. Purely selfish, nothing more.” She sighs. “It was nice meeting you under better circumstances, Castiel.”

“Likewise, Jean,” he says, feeling a strange pulling in his chest, a feeling you get when you know you’re probably not going to see a person again.

She nods at Dean and turns toward the door. “And one more thing. You ever think about showing this place to her uncle? Seems like it might be pretty enough to open up shop again.” she looks over her shoulder. “Just a thought.”

Castiel smiles, holding the door open for her, and watching as her car drives off in the direction of the highway.

The rest of the afternoon passes in a haze, but they do manage to get all the furniture into the lean-to before nightfall. Mia helps after finishing painting the windows, and the job goes quickly. She doesn’t mention Jean again.

They order Chinese take-out and eat outside on the back steps of the Church, Dean pointing out the fireflies blinking in and out in the forest. Mia seems happy by the end of the day, and Castiel sends her home only a little worried. Dean goes inside the church while Castiel takes their trash to the dumpster.

He throws the bag over the top of the dumpster before the whistling wind draws his attention to the trees. The wind always blows in Kansas, but something created a gust. He notices the outline of a silhouette in the trees first. A face, long hair, long limbs, standing with one hand on its hip.

“Hello?” he calls out, and it disappears with a blink.

Castiel chalks it up to a trick of the wind, the way the trees swayed in the breeze and heads back toward the Church. He thinks about telling Dean about it, but the words stop in his throat when he sees him, hunched over the sink in the kitchen, hands gripping the counter tight.

He steps softly, but the floor still creaks underneath him, and Dean snaps around, eyes hard and guarded, a shadow blocking most of his face.

Castiel holds up his hands. “It’s just me.”

Dean relaxes. With relief or something else, Castiel can’t say. Castiel barely sees him move before Dean is in front of him, running his hands over Castiel's arms before dipping forward. It’s not anger, but Castiel feels a thrumming, nervous energy under Dean’s skin. He breathes against Castiel's lips for a few seconds, eyes open and questioning. Castiel says yes by closing the last inch of distance, arching into Dean’s space and pressing their lips together.

Dean freezes against him for a moment, lips going hard. Castiel backs up a minuscule distance, worrying he overstepped this time but Dean follows him, surging forward, taking hold of his hair and drawing him in.

Something hard hits his back; the fridge handle. It's surreal, the press of mouths and a hard hand gripping at the base of his neck. Dean's lips taste like smoke, and he's confused until he parts Castiel's lips and sweeps his tongues inside. Castiel thinks _closer,_ and their feet shuffle on the floor, slotting one in between the other, boot next to bare foot.

Deans lips may taste like smoke, but he smells like work, dust and sweat and he shouldn’t find it pleasant but it is. He runs a hand through Dean’s hair and he grabs at Castiel’s hip, pulling them closer and swallowing the gasp that escapes from Castiel's mouth.

"Don't overthink it," Dean whispers against his jaw, peppering hard, sharp kisses against the skin there, moving down to his throat.

Castiel tries to relax, feeling himself shake against the touch, as sudden as it is. He runs his hands up and down Dean's back and in the back of his mind he knows that this isn't unexpected. His consciousness doesn't care what form Dean’s body takes, but his body wants to be close to him nonetheless. He had noticed more when he was human; the curve of his neck against his shoulder, the callouses covering his hands--

Castiel pushes as much as he's pushed, maneuvering Dean back toward the couch with his eyes closed, kicking out with his foot until he feels the frame. Dean lets himself fall back onto it, falling onto the worn gingham, getting a fistful of Castiel's shirt to drag him down with him. Castiel doesn't get a moment to think. Dean won't let him look at him, won't let him speak pacifying words so he lets Dean manhandle him until he's under him. He presses a knee into the crotch of his pants and Castiel hisses into Dean's mouth; he seems to like that sound, replacing the knee with hips bearing down.

It's awkward and fumbling and it _burns_ but Castiel arches into it, bites down on Dean's lip to keep him from going far. Dean wraps his arms around him, reaching under him, pressing them together chest to chest. He says _You like that_ and Castiel doesn't know if it's a question or not but he nods into Dean's neck. Hips move faster. They're only half hard in their pants but he knows he could stay like this forever, rocking against Dean and swallowing his moans when they get loud enough to make an echo.

They slow down eventually, Castiel feeling the exhaustion deep in his bones and Dean sensing it, at least. He grasps the arm rest behind his head as Dean unzips his pants, reaching inside and stroking him quick until he's coming apart with a sob. Dean braces a hand above Castiel’s head and reaches into his own pants to take care of himself before Castiel grabs his wrist and flips them again, Dean landing on his back with Castiel looming above him.

Castiel’s head still spins from his own orgasm, and he feels light, too light. He still holds onto Dean’s wrist; he relaxes and laces their fingers together instead, pinning them above Dean’s head. He settles between Dean’s legs and kisses him softly, pressing his hips down and swallowing the whimper coming from Dean’s throat. He breaks away soon after that, making his way down and kissing at Dean’s neck, licking his at the pulse point.

He settles back on his knees and rucks up Dean’s shirt, exposing his stomach. He kisses at the soft flesh there, sighing when Dean winds his fingers through his hair. The soft tugs turns into pulling when he shoves Dean’s jeans down enough to expose his cock, mouthing at the head before taking him down, the hard flesh heavy in his mouth when Dean’s hips buck unexpectedly. He clamps his hands down on Dean’s hipbones, licking the underside and enjoying the string of _fuckfuckfuck_ that’s coming from Dean’s mouth before he comes, his back arching and his grip tightening as his feet slip on the upholstery of the couch.

Castiel swallows what he can and licks up the rest. Dean’s eyes are closed, and he catches his breath slowly. Castiel sits back on his heels, sighing and running a hand through already mussed up hair.

Dean sits up after a few moments, pulling his pants up and swiveling to sit on the couch, dropping his head to his hands. The feverish heat that had been coming off of him seems to dissipate the longer they sit.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you alright?”

Dean smirks to himself, laughing enough to make his shoulders shake. “I didn’t think your voice could get any deeper, but I was wrong,” he laughs.

Castiel rolls his eyes and shoves him with his shoulder. They sit in silence for a moment, the humming of the refrigerator loud.

“It’s not that I didn’t-- enjoy that. It’s just that-- when I walked in here, you seemed, out of focus.”

“Like blurry?”

“No, no, like you weren’t focusing. For a minute--” Castiel stops, shaking his head.

“What?” Dean asks, reaching over and smoothing Castiel’s hair back, away from where is was trying to flop in his face.

Castiel’s thoughts are interrupted by a buzzing, and Dean sighs before reaching into his pocket, running a hand through his own hair.

“We’re not done talking,” he says before pressing the talk button with the most annoyance he looks like he can muster. “Yeah?”

Dean’s face falls at the voice on the other end, and Castiel recognizes Sam’s fast talking on the other end. Dean’s frown deepens with every word, and he glances at Castiel, worried, before responding.

“Got it. We’re on guard here. We can handle a demon, Sam. Not gonna talk about that right now.” Dean’s words are hurried, as if he can’t get them out fast enough. He snaps the phone shut after a short goodbye.

“Sam’s been tracking where Gina Fraiser could possibly be. Turns out she did move to New York City, worked for some hipster newspaper then just vanished. Left behind an apartment filled with sigils apparently. Newspapers called it ‘devil worship,’” he adds with a snort.

Castiel doesn’t find it funny. “So, Sam doesn’t know where she is?” Castiel asks.

“No. Odds are, she’s dead by now. We are in a demon war.” Dean gets up. “I’m heading to bed,” he says nonspecifically, and Castiel knows it’s the only kind of invitation he’ll ever get.

He doesn’t follow immediately, watching as Dean disappears around the corner.

He whispers his earlier thought to himself, knowing that he’ll never tell Dean, not until it was too late.

“I thought your eyes were black.”

 

* * *

 

Castiel feels impatient.

It crawls under his skin and pushes against his chest. He knows this is a waste of time, and that makes him angry. No one needs him angry, not in this town, not now.

Rivera had seemed nervous in their final communications, but had ultimately asked him back. He obliged only because of what was promised him. Being back in the church makes his skin crawl, and the place gives him the creeps, honestly.

He walks through the Sanctuary, forever thankful that this particular offshoot of Christianity doesn’t believe in holy water. Not a drop of it anywhere in the place. Not that hearing ‘Praise Jesus!’ exclaimed in thick midwestern accents had been a picnic, but he had managed. For this haul, he could manage anything.

He descends into the basement, noting the crushing emptiness of the building. Gone are the ays of ice cream socials and youth group movie nights. The door had been dead bolted from the inside, easily bypassed by him, and not a car dotted the parking lot.

_I hope he tears us to shreds._

He swats at the voice, barely at the volume of a buzzing fly. He laughs at her apparent lack of power, and doesn’t respond. Ignoring Susan will hurt her more than anything. The slow descent into insanity tastes _delicious._

He hears a fast heartbeat, and follows it to the room at the end of the hallway. Leaning against the doorframe, he watches Michael Rivera sitting alone at one of the tables, looking out of place next to the finger-paint stained table. A tall bookshelf stands freely in front of the window, stacked high with empty mason jars. The moonlight casts strange reflections through them.

He jumps to his feet as soon as he spots her, skittish as always.

“I didn’t-- I didn’t think you would come,” he stammers out, sweaty hair flopping in front of his face.

“It’s not a charity visit. I want to see her,” Castiel says.

Rivera looks down. “I-- I don’t. She wouldn’t come.”

_Honestly G, you’re just not scary enough._

This time he isn’t so nice, and he hears a whimper from the back of his head as he presses down, all but suffocating Susan. He turns to Rivera, smiling.

“And you didn’t think to solidify your plans before asking me to take a trip out here?”

Rivera looks at his feet, jaw set.

“You’re not going to lay a hand on Mia.”

Castiel smirks, laughing once. “Come on Mike. I just want to see an old friend.”

“I know very well that Mia isn’t your friend!” Rivera shouts, surprising even himself. He shrinks inward, his chest collapsing. “I asked you here because I need more time.”

Castiel isn’t listening. The jars in front of the window catch the moonlight in a bizarre way, and he finds himself drawn toward them.

“People have died. You’re not keeping up your end of the deal.”

Surely the church wouldn’t last much longer, not with the way Abaddon was having her send out hell hounds, and who would think to look here?

“We were all promised ten years. It’s barely been three.”

Castiel blinks, grinding his teeth in annoyance. “And what did you expect to get out of this little meeting? More time you said? Pathetic.” He turns, enjoying the way Michael Rivera flinches. “You’re barely a year out from your deal and you’re already asking for a deferral. You haven’t even begun to pay the interest.”

His shoulders sag. “I was never going to give Mia to you.”

Castiel feels acid in his throat, rising up from his anger. He suppresses it, knowing it’s not time yet.

“It’s really too bad,” he says, examining his nails, “Considering I had almost forgotten all about you.”

“Forgotten?”

“You could have had your ten years, Michael Rivera.”

Rivera looks around himself, collapsing into his chair, devastated.

Castiel shrugs. “What can I say? Management change. Clearance sale. Everything must go. Even my own vessel had to get checked out.”

_Charming._

Rivera runs a hand through his hair, sweat glistening on his forehead. “You get a new boss, and people have to die? All to use us for energy?”

“Afraid so. I’ve got to think about job security here. Keeping the higher ups happy.” He walks past him, feeling him flinch, to return to the shelf near the window. The moon fades already, replaced by the beginnings of a sunrise. “I guess I can’t complain though.”

“And why is that?”

He snaps his fingers, hot breath caressing the back of her neck almost instantly.

“I got my old boss back. And she’s got a real thing for instant gratification.”

Susan screams inside his head, louder even than the man being mulled in front of him, and he turns away as the hounds do their work, spattering blood on his shoes. He takes a jar in hand, examining it, feeling its weight. White, fluid light rises up behind him, emanating from Michael Rivera’s destroyed body.

He smiles, lips stinging as they stretch wide.

The screaming inside his head grows louder, pounding behind his eyes. He can’t stop it, can’t block her out, not this time. He hears his name.

_Castiel. Cas. Castiel!_

_She’s here. And so am I._

Castiel wakes with nothing but a gasp, sharply contrasting with the terror of his nightmare, the adrenaline pumping through his body. He’s in his room, a soft weight pressed against his back. Dean.

He turns over with care, not wanting to wake Dean, but wanting to see him. He breathes slow and steady from deep sleep, and that fact alone warms Castiel from the chill of the nightmare. Running a light hand down his arm, he finds raised from old injuries. A lifetime of pain. He moves his hand to his face, lightly touching the soft stubble that had just turned soft.

Wide awake now, he gets up to stumble towards the bathroom. He almost trips over Dean’s bag on the way, fumbling for the light switch as soon as he’s in the hallway. He tries the switch once, nothing. The second time proves no different. He sighs, knowing he’ll have to check the power in the morning. His eyes adjust enough for him to make it to the bathroom with minimal stumbling.

He finishes quickly, padding back in the direction of the bedroom.

“Castiel.”

He hears the voice first, just a whisper that could be easily missed, coming from the direction of the kitchen. Looking up, he sees moonlight first, filtering into the hallway from the kitchen window. A figure stands in the shadows. Just an outline, barely visible.

“Who’s there?” He calls out, voice hoarse, feeling helpless in his broken body.

Castiel sees a small movement from the figure, possibly the wringing of hands, before they speak.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

The voice is deep, clashing with its small form.

“Same here,” he murmurs, “Just tell me who you are.”

Castiel moves slowly, wondering whether he could get to his blade inside the bedroom in time. The floor creaks with every step.

The figure takes a few breath, exhaling with a shaking sigh, before replying.

“Susan Wallace.”

Castiel’s stomach drops. He reaches inside the bedroom, seeing Susan flinch at the movement. He only closes the door, checking to see that Dean is still asleep.

Susan has her back presses to the wall when he turns back.

“If you are who you say you are, I won’t hurt you,” he says.

“I am,” she says, louder that she intended, if the way she clamps a hand over her mouth is any indication.

He sighs. “Come in here.”

He leads her into the kitchen, indicating for her to sit at the table before filling a glass with water. She gulps it down as soon as he sets it down.

“I don’t have a lot of time,” she says after setting down the empty glass.

“Have you been running?”

She shakes her head, clutching her side.

“Are you hurt?” He reaches for her.

“No!” She shrinks away. “I’m sorry. Don’t worry about me. Does she always sleep here?” She jerks her head in the direction of the couch in the corner.

Castiel follows her eye-line, confusion resolving when he sees Mia stretched out on the couch, fast asleep.

“No,” he answers, dropping his voice to a whisper, “I didn’t even know she was here.”

Susan swallows hard, watching Mia for a moment, a strange look on her face. “Do you believe in miracles, Castiel?”

He’s taken aback, answering after a few ticks of the clock. “You must know by now that miracles are deliberate acts of Angels.”

She nods. “Just checking. Was wondering if this might be a miracle.”

He furrows his brow in confusion. “Susan you have to tell me what’s going on. I can help you--”

“She’s here,” she interrupts, tapping her head with the tip of her finger. “I’m holding her.”

Castiel tries to keep his face neutral, even as his heart pounds hard in his chest. He should have nothing to fear from one demon, but his aching muscles and lack of blade say different.

“I can do an exorcism, Susan. It’ll be quick, easy.” He tries not to think of the possible damage inside Susan, and whether she could survive without a demon riding her.

“No can do,” she counters, eyes shut now, breath rattling in her chest, “She swallowed something pearly with some-- aahhh-- with some _shit_ carved into it before we left for Kansas. She said it would make it impossible for us to be separated. Seem to weaken her for a while-- I took control. But she’s pissed now and giving me so much heartburn--” She cries out, doubling over and coughing, blood splattering the white linoleum. He hears rustling, and out of the corner of his eye he sees Mia sit up, confused and still muddled with sleep.

“What’s going on?” she asks, voice shaking as she stares at the blood before looking up, eyes widening. “Gina.”

“Not Gina,” Castiel says quickly, one hand on Susan’s shoulder as she continues to cough.

She rests her elbows on her knees, coughing subsiding for a moment. Staring down at the floor, she speaks to Mia, eyes hollow and blood dripping down her chin.

“I’m so sorry, Mia.”

Mia stays silent, standing up slowly. Susan sits back, wiping her mouth with the sleeve of her shirt. She sways slightly, eyes unfocused.

“The souls,” she says, “They’re not gone. They’re here. Gina’s come to get them, to bring them to Abaddon. And-- she has unfinished business.” She looks at Mia. “I thought you should know.”

She doubles over again, dry heaving and shaking and Castiel jerks forward to catch her before she falls. He holds her shoulders, bringing her face into the light.

Her eyes are still human, still bright even as they stare, unseeing.

“She’s here. She’s coming.”

Susan’s skin burns, and Castiel lets go with a hiss, his palms red and angry. Mia gasps, and Susan’s eyes flick to black, a wide, toothy grin stretching across her bloodstained lips.

“Oh Castiel. My savior.”

Mia screams, but Castiel hears the scrape of the wooden chair first as it topples to the ground and he’s thrown across the room. Something hard connects with the small of his back, sharp and pointed and his yell is strangled before he hits the ground, landing on all fours. He gasps for breath, the wind knocked out of him. His chest swells uselessly, the air wheezing in and out of his lungs.

A pair of muddy hiking boots step between his feet, and Gina looks down at him with a smile that could be described as gleeful under better circumstances. She crouches down, grasping the thin material of his shirt with sharp nails, digging into his skin. She drags him upright, slamming him into the fridge.

Her nostrils flare, eyes hungry. “Gosh it’s such a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Mia stands behind them, inching her way to the knife block. He tries to to signal, tell her to run and that it’s useless. Gina follows his eyes, laughing softly; the same, childish sound that had haunted his nightmares.

“I know she’s there. Not that dense. And more importantly, I _want_ her here. Without her, no one leaves happy tonight.” She presses harder, her nails digging into the meat of his chest.

His legs quake beneath him, not with fear but with weakness. He assesses his options, and all would require strength he doesn’t have, and clarity of mind that is clouded by pain. He sees a flash of movement by the doorframe, maybe a leg, or the tip of a boot.

“Nobody get any funny ideas,” she taunts, reaching behind herself to pull a thin, angelic blade from the back of her jeans.

“Jealous?” she asks, running the blade’s cool surface over Castiel’s throat. “I thought you’d have one of your own.”

He thinks of his weapon, reliable but so far away, tucked into Dean’s bag in the bedroom.

She laughs again. “Those wheels are just a-turning inside that head tonight. I do wish you’d talk to me. I’m only an adoring fan,” she croons, pressing harder on his throat, enough to leave a bruise. “I doubt I’d even need a fancy blade like this to take you down though. Not with all that fancy grace draining out of you like a sieve.

Castiel moves to stomp on her foot, grab for a chunk of hair, anything so that Dean can rush in and grab Mia before it’s too late. Gina blocks him easily, however, turning and slamming him into the counter, the sharp edge digging into the small of his back. He feels the sting of pain and then wetness, blood.

Her eyes are dark now, and angry. “Now now, you and I both know that you zapped most of your juice all on your own trying to calm down Crowley’s demon-in-training. Let’s not do anything rash. Now,” she turns her head, looking at Mia, “Honey, are you _sure_ there isn’t anything you want more than anything else in _entire world_? Not even a trip to Disney World?”

Mia stands frozen, eyes clouded with anger and fear.

Her voice is steady.

“I’ll never make a deal with you. You’re _never_ going to kill an innocent person again.”

Gina turns, releasing Castiel suddenly and letting him fall to the ground. He breaks his own fall with his hands, feeling the blood trickle down his back. Mia stands her ground, and Castiel sees a flash of eyes reflecting in the doorway.

Gina doesn’t seem to notice. “We could have been such good friends.”

“I’m not interested in your trash,” Mia says, fingers twitching at his sides, “If the souls are here, just take them and leave.”

Gina laughs, short and bark-like this time. “I could snap you in half just as sure as you stand there--”

Through his haze, Castiel hears a bang and sees Dean shove Mia out of the way, taking hold of Gina and pushing her to the ground.

“Cas get up!” Dean yells, fist clenched around his knife. Castiel watches him take a swing at Gina, nearly missing but clipping her on the side of her face, opening a shallow gash. She screams, hurling herself at Dean and lashing out with the blade. He ducks, charging her to push her into the wall.

They struggle, and Castiel feels for the ground beneath him, longing for his blade, and for the floor to be beneath his feet. He manages to pull himself up, leaning on the stove for support.

“Dean!”

Dean freezes, a knife to Gina’s throat, eyes wild and the Mark of Cain beating like an ugly tattoo on his arm. “Little busy here, Cas.”

“Her vessel is still alive! Susan Wallace is still alive.” The words tumblr from him of their own accord, knowing that Dean had killed countless vessels before, that it was all collateral damage, but he had never _spoken_ to one before--

Gina grins. “That’s right, listen to the pretty angel. Think of the meat suit. And all the meat suits around the world that will never have this opportunity.”

“Shut up!” Dean shouts, pushing the knife harder against her throat, a parody of the hold Gina had on Castiel a few moments ago.

Castiel approaches slowly, thankful when his legs stay steady under him.

“Dean,” he says, the name a prayer, a plea, “There’s a woman in there, and she was strong enough to keep Gina back long enough to warn us-- she can survive. I was _just_ talking to her.”

“Can’t do an exorcism,” Dean says, his voice rough, “She’s locked in.”

“Susan said she was weakened,” Mia says, stepping up to Castiels side, “What ever she did might not be foolproof.”

Dean’s face contorts with hatred, and Castiel knows he only sees a demon, an abomination, and every instinct tells him to strike it down. Get rid of evil. He’s shaking even as he relaxes, removing the blade just a fraction from Gina’s neck.

She smirks, then disappears.

“Dammit,” Dean says, punching his fist to the wall. He runs out of the kitchen, checking the hallways and the Sanctuary before returning with anger written on his face.

“Dean--”

“Dammit Cas!” Dean’s eyes are wild when he turns to face him. “She’s a demon! She’s a demon and you just let her play you!”

Dean still holds the knife by his side, shifting it, constantly adjusting his grip. He stares for a moment, eyes burning and the Mark pulsing at his wrist before he softens, breaking his gaze.

“What does she want?” He asks, pinching the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb.

“Susan said something about souls--”

“Me,” Mia interrupts, “She’s looking for me.”

“There’s no reason she needs you in particular,” Castiel argues, turning to Dean for support. He stays silent.

Mia shakes her head, face falling. “You don’t know her like I do. This was all personal, and I was one of the few she couldn’t get a deal from.”

There’s silence for a moment, punctuated by the ticking of the clock. Castiel contemplates ripping it off the wall.

“She’s gone for now,” Dean starts, “Everybody stays in this room. We keep watch until daybreak.”

Mia laughs, a dark sound. “She’ll be back.”

Dean mostly ignores her, instead pushing Castiel into a kitchen chair and busying himself with drawing a devil’s trap in both doorways and lining the windows with salt. He leaves for a moment after, coming back with Castiel’s blade in hand.

He sets it on the table. “Figured you’d want this.”

Castiel takes it, running his fingers over the smooth metal he knew so well. It reflects the moonlight, and the light is mesmerizing.

“Fuck, Cas, you’re bleeding.”

Castiel had completely forgotten about the pain in his back, and the way his shirt clung to his skin from the blood. Dean grabs a flashlight and a dish towel, turning Castiel around with a pressing hand on his shoulder.

“It’s fine,” he says, “I can barely even feel it.”

“Shut up,” Dean whispers, intent on his work. “Pretty shallow, already stopped bleeding.” He cleans the wound as best he can with the damp towel and a few band-aids Mia finds below the sink.

Dean does his work quietly, and Castiel lets his head fall into his hands, leaning against the kitchen table. He feels drained, and sleep hangs over him like a cloud, stopped only by his anxiety.

“You said you weren’t all human,” Dean murmurs, fastening the bandage to his back with medical tape.

“This isn’t an exact science, I’m afraid,” Castiel says, voice muffled by his hands.

Dean doesn’t respond, but the weight of his hand on his back remains.

Despite her jumpiness, Mia does fall back asleep, stretched out on the couch with her back to them. Dean refuses to sleep, claiming that he needs to stay up and watch, but the way he taps his foot and drums his fingers on the tabletop makes Castiel think that Dean _couldn’t_ sleep now even if he tried; not with the adrenaline coursing through him.

Castiel finds himself with his head down on the table, pillowed by his own arms. He falls asleep to the a-rhythmic sound of Dean tapping his foot.

He dreams in fragments. Memories, some his own and others obviously belonging to others, drift though his mind. They’re bright and distorted, all with the sting of evil. Hurried conversations, the smell of fear, the wetness of blood spattering on his face as hell-hounds tear into screaming bodies--

No.

Not his face. Not his past. These are not his memories, but he feels them coursing through him as if he had downloaded them in his sleep.

Ground appears under his feet, and he walks forward. He’s in the kitchen, and Mia sleeps soundly on the couch and Dean faces forward with a the knife still clenched in his fist. His own body still sleeps at the kitchen table, face hidden by his arms.

He walks away, not want to draw attention to Mia and Dean. He pushes past to the outside, finding it easy to slip through the kitchen wall, breathing in the cool night air. The forest looms ahead, dark and thick looking without the lights from the church to illuminate it. He steps into it, getting swallowed by darkness.

His legs stop near a tree with a wide trunk, chest heaving with the effort it takes to breathe in the humid night air. He props a foot against a protruding branch, leaning over to catch his breath. Listening, he waits for the sound of a twig snapping or the rustle of a jacket.

 _Castiel._ _She’s coming._

“Don’t listen to her, Cas, she’s extremely boring, not to mention vague as hell.”

He swivels around, seeing Gina leaning against another tree, one ankle hooked over the other. She grins, mouth stretched insincere and wide.

“You’re looking human,” Gina Fraiser, pushing off the tree to stand in front of him. “It suits you, you should make it a permanent situation.”

“Get out of my head,” he chokes out, his voice constricted.

She laughs, letting her head fall back. “Don’t feel too hot, do you? Why don’t you sit?”

With a twitch of her eyebrow, Castiel feels an imaginary hook in his spine, pulling him backwards and making him stumble back onto the leaf covered ground. His hand stings where he scraped it against a rough exposed root, leaving bloody tracks on his palm.

Gina seems pleased by the events, and leans against the tree again.

“I missed this place. Who needs a crossroads when you’ve got your own government subsidized forest out back of the Church to make God’s deals?”

“They were not my deals,” he says, voice snapping.

“Really?” she says, feigning ignorance, “I was under the impression that I was sent from God to continue his work. His very own little cherub.” She pretends to flap imaginary wings, dissolving into girlish giggles. “It was all so easy. So, so easy.”

“You don’t work for Crowley.”

“Yeah, so?”

“You gain nothing. You tricked and killed innocent people and you gained nothing from it.”

She shrugs. “I wouldn’t say _nothing._ Things are changing, Castiel.”

“Abaddon won’t last. She can be defeated,” he says, sounding more confident than he has any right to feel.

Her eyes narrow, and Castiel sees the first pass of genuine anger on her face. “I wasn’t talking about Abaddon, though she does have style. The truth is, it doesn’t matter who’s in charge. Everything’s coming unglued anyway. I can’t wait for the chaos.”

“So why are you here?” he shouts, tasting blood in his mouth, “There’s no chaos here! Just people who can’t stop grieving for the deaths you caused!”

Her face relaxes back into amusement, anger dissipating. “Everything’s here, Castiel. Right under our feet. If you were half of what you used to be, you would have noticed it. Too bad you let me get to you.”

“This is… you?” Castiel stutters, eyes widening.

“What did you think was happening?” she says, “You show up in Colton, not even bothering to cover your tracks, and you thought no one would notice? That no one would notice the festering wound where your grace used to be?”

Castiel feels the weakness within him, the pain that pressed on his chest and settled in his shoulders. He had thought it was a symptom of his stolen grace, but really a direct interference with a patient, far-away demon. Anger festers within him, deep in his stomach, anger at another entity using him, draining him for all he’s worth.

“Don’t get me wrong,” she continues, “You drained yourself pretty good with that trick you pulled. Mark of Cain, nasty stuff.” She shivers. “And then, well, you left yourself completely open to me. What can I say? Your power was just too tempting.”

Castiel swallows hard while she laughs again, tired of the sound. He tries to stand again, this time getting his feet successfully under him. She doesn’t interfere.

“By the way, about Dean,” she says, stepping close enough to him that Castiel can see Susan Wallace’s freckles. “He’s already half-gone. And there’s no changing it. I’m sure Crowley will find a way to end it soon.”

“Get out of my head,” he says again, voice harsh.

“Make me,” she counters, cocking her head to the side.

He dives for her, hands outstretched to claw at whatever was in reach, finding open air instead. He’s alone in the forest, not a sound around him.

Castiel wakes up to Dean shaking his shoulder, his hand tight like a vice. He inhales sharply, almost rocking backwards in his chair.

Dean steadies him. “Whoa there.”

“I’m fine,” Castiel says as the kitchen comes into focus. Mia still sleeps on the couch, and moonlight filters in through the window. “What time is it?”

“Three,” Dean answers, dropping his hand to the table. “You’ve been out about an hour.”

Castiel nods, runnings a hand through his hair, thoughts moving faster than his exhausted body can take.

“You were talking,” Dean says, “While you were asleep.”

Castiel looks up to find Dean staring, his eyes questioning, not accusing. He remembers his first phone call to Dean, explaining the situation in Colton. The relief he felt when he heard his familiar voice say _I’ll be there as soon as I can._

Castiel sighs. “It’s been her all along,” he says finally.

“What’s been her?”

“Whatever’s happening to me. The weakness, the pain. I’m all but human.” His laugh comes out bitter and harsh.

“You’re saying she’s been messing with you? All this time?”

“Yes. I was already weak. She has a tie here and my grace isn’t my own-- She drained me. Sent me-- hallucinations.”

Dean pauses, frozen, before running a quick hand over his mouth. “I’m going to kill her.”

“Dean.”

“No,” he says, his whisper harsh, “You don’t get to sit here and tell me that _someone else_ fucked with your head, and then just say I’m supposed to take it?”

“I’m asking you to show mercy! There’s a living woman inside of her, and she wants to live. She’s strong enough,” he affirms.

Dean shakes his head. “Do you think if the demon’s gone you’ll go back to full power?”

Castiel frowns. “I don’t know. There’s no way to know.”

Dean sighs, looking at the blade still in his right hand. He releases it, setting it on the table.

“Sun’s coming up soon,” he says, “About an hour or so, it’ll be day. Doubt she’ll try anything right out in broad daylight.”

Something clicks in Castiel’s mind, something Dean had said, just a word had set it off. He stands suddenly, head spinning enough to make him stumble.

_Everythings here, Castiel, right under our feet._

Dean’s at his side in an instant, steadying him with a hand on his arm.

“Whoa, you ok?”

“Yes,” Castiel says quickly, brushing off the touch. He walks to the couch, shaking Mia by the shoulder to wake her.

Her eyes shoot open, but she calms when she recognizes him. “What is it? Is she back?”

Castiel shakes his head. “Gina said that the souls were still here, that they were under our feet.”

Her eyes widen. “The basement.”

He nods. She is upright in an instant, adjusting her dress and heading in the direction of the Sanctuary. Dean steps in front of her, blocking the entryway.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

Mia’s nostrils flare, hands balling into fists. “You are not going to stop me.”

Dean smirks and shakes his head. “I don’t intent to. I know you two have some secret language that you think no one else understands, but I know you’re thinking about destroying those jars. You think the souls are still there?”

“They have to be. She wants me to complete the set,” she seethes.

“Which is why we need to work fast, Dean,” Castiel says, standing behind her.

Dean looks at him, eyes hard, before dropping his hand and letting Mia through.

They’re back in the basement within five minutes. The dampness makes Castiel shiver, and he tries at the light switch he knows won’t work. The door to the room with the jars stands ajar, the paleness of moonlight coming through the crack under the door.

Mia goes in first, approaching the jars slowly and with soft footsteps. The jars and clear and covered with a thin layer of dust, but Castiel feels energy in droves. It makes him feel dizzy and drunk and he doesn’t understand how he didn’t realize it before.

“Dean--” he starts.

“I know,” Dean interrupts, looking anywhere but Castiel, “I’ll stay out here and keep watch. Not gonna chance it again.”

Castiel nods, reaching out to touch Dean’s face, acting on a sudden impulse. He traces the lines there, not knowing when he would be allowed to do it again. He barely grazes it before Dean pulls away, smirking darly.

“It’s all good.” He jerks his head towards the room. “Go get rid of that mess.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says, watching as Mia takes a jar off the shelf, examining it.

“What for?”

“You said that you would find a way to get my grace back,” he turns to Dean, “But I never told you that I’ll go to the ends of the earth to get that Mark off your wrist.”

Dean shakes his head, mouth a tight line. “It’s been a good couple of weeks, Cas.”

Castiel nods, feeling the dismissal. His throat is thick and humanity pulses through him like an anchor. Heavy, but not entirely unpleasant.

He joins Mia, noting how the temperature rises as he steps closer to the jars. Heat waves ripple through the air and the shelf looks weighed down, fragile, as if the weight of souls was enough to bow wood.

“Why can’t we see them?” Mia says.

“I expect Gina put some sort of glamour over them, before she left. I can feel it now, but without my grace, I can see how I missed it before.”

“Is there any way to disarm them?” she asks, sounding close to tears. Her hands are steady, however, tight around a jar that must be burning hot.

Castiel nods. “Souls aren’t malignant energy. Not by nature, anyway. If we open the jars slowly, one by one, they’ll move on without harming us.”

Mia stares ahead, eyes finally spilling over. “Is my father in one of these jars, Castiel?”

Castiel has never felt the need to comfort, the need to _lie_ , more in his entire existence. Mia deserves the truth, however much he had to give.

“I don’t know. Gina decided to use these jars the last time she came to Colton, and it’s hard to say whether these are the souls of the people here, or if this is more like general storage. For raw power.” Her face falls. “They will be at peace, though, after we set them free.”

Mia nods, holding her chin high. She grips the lid of the jar she’s holding, looking to Castiel for approval. He nods.

She loosens it slowly, unscrewing the outer rim before removing the lid. The glamour disappears instantly without the jar to maintain it, and a shimmering, glowing tendril of light twists its way out, floating and swirling around Mia’s arm before it disappears, fading away.

Mia sighs. “That was less that I thought it would be. Warm, though.”

Castiel smiles. “Just--keep it at that pace, ok?”

Mia laughs softly, smiling through tears. She reaches for another jar, her fingers barely grazing the glass before Castiel hears Dean shout behind him.

“Cas look out!”

Castiel barely has time to drop to the floor before a blade whizzes past his ear, nearly missing him and wedging into the wall instead. He can barely stumble to his feet before Gina hits him, her fist like a brick wall snapping his head back. He can’t get to his blade; his hands are numb. His back hits the wall with a painful smack, and he hears yelling, from himself or Dean, he can’t tell.

Gina pulls the knife from the wall and holds it to his throat.

“Let’s see how you like it when someone messes with your stuff,” she spits in his face, eyes wild, mouth hanging open.

Castiel feels hazy, his vision clouded, and time seems to slow. Dean runs behind them, blade raised, and he watches as his eyes turn from anger to fear. He’s confused; blind rage he could understand, but _fear_?

Castiel doesn’t understand until Gina’s eyes roll back in her head and he feels hands, thousands of hands pulling on his jaw and stretching his mouth until it’s forced open. Black smoke pours from Susan Wallace’s body, filling him, choking him and blinding him and ending with a metallic clink in his stomach. Susan’s form crumples at his feet.

_I’ve got you now._

He’s surprised by how strange it feels. Natural, almost like being an angel, except that instead of a spark at his fingertips, there’s a burning, smouldering fire. The taste of her catches in his throat, acrid and stinging as she fills him down to the tips of his toes. She locks in, and he feels the loss of control in his limbs, and the way she shakes out her new muscles. Panic sets in when she uses his mouth.

“Strangely comfortable,” she says, as if talking about the weather, and he feels like a marionette.

Dean’s chest heaves with anger, and Mia stands behind him, one hand resting on the shelf.

“Get out of him,” he snarls, lips curling.

Gina laughs, the sound high-pitched and wrong coming from him. “This is prime real estate, buddy, so no can do.” She examines his fingernails, squinting down at them. “And more importantly, you _like_ this meatsack, so I can safely conduct business with fearing the wrath of your pretty little knife there.”

Dean lunges at him, grabbing his shoulders and throwing him into the wall. Gina bounces back inside of him, throwing a punch hard enough for Castiel to feel Dean’s bones crackle under his fist. Dean snaps back, shoving him and backing him into the wall. Castiel feels the impact, the smack of his wound against the concrete and wants to cry out. His screams are silent, however, and Dean presses the knife to his throat.

“I’ll do what I have to,” he says, voice dangerously low, “Those souls ain’t getting to Abaddon.”

“Dean,” she says, as if they were old friends and his knife wasn’t pressed to her throat, “You’re barely even part of this team anymore. Surely you can see the merit of chaos, even if stuffy Castiel couldn’t.

He presses the knife closer, and Castiel can feel his arms across his chest, stifling his lungs.

“I’m not playing around. Smoke out, or this ends now.”

Dean’s eyes stand out darker than Castiel has ever seen them, energy coming from the Mark that rivals the souls. He starts to mutter the words of an exorcism, low and quick under his breath, but she cuts him off with a barking laugh.

“Funny thing about anti-exorcism charms,” she says in a sickening sing-song, “ _I_ get to control where they go. It’s in Castiel now, so your jabbering means nothing.”

“Dean,” Mia says behind them, hand tight on pillar of the shelf, eyes wide, “Think about what you’re doing.”

“I’m thinking that we’re gonna keep one more trumped-up crossroads demon from making more deals.” Castiel hears the resolve in his voice, the drive, and he screams, no sound coming out.

“He’s screaming in here,” Gina whispers, “He doesn’t want to die. And here you are, talking about how it just doesn’t matter to you.”

Dean’s face falls, and he swallows. Castiel pushes, trying to make his hands move of his own accord, wanting to touch Dean’s face, tell him to do what he has to do to save Mia, to get out of there and out of this hell of his own making. He sees Mia, frozen in place, the energy coming from the jars warping her image. If he could just tell her--

“I just want the souls. I’ll take them and go, I promise,” Gina says, voice smooth.

Dean’s eyes lighten, and the press of the knife loosens for a moment. Castiel feels Gina gear up inside of him, ready to tear at him.

“Cas,” Dean says, his voice barely a whisper, “Come on, you’re stronger than her, _fight_ this.”

Castiel uses Dean’s face to guide him, to focus him. A crinkle at his eyes, the curve of his mouth. The way he kissed the back of his neck as if it were a secret, the way he taught Mia how to sand the pews--

He screams, pushing and kicking until he can feel Gina give, confused and shocked. He pushes harder, his voice finally breaking through as air rushes from his lungs, his own lungs for now.

“Dean,” he whispers, his own voice small and distant to his ears.

“Cas?” Dean says cautiously, not letting up on the knife.

“It’s me,” he gasps, feeling Gina roiling inside of him, her anger burning his insides. He controls his mouth, but his limbs are rigid and paralyzed at his sides. “I don’t have a lot of time. Mia--” he looks at her, the hard set of her mouth, the way she straightens at the sound of her name. A friend, for however brief a time.

“Mia you have to smash them. Bring the whole thing down. It’ll be enough to burn her out, kill her hopefully.”

Dean lets the knife clatter to the floor, grasping Castiel by the shoulders.

“Not gonna happen.”

“Dean, I have a chance. It’ll kill her, and I could survive it.” He swallows, meeting Dean’s eyes. They’re wide and green, not a trace of black. “And it’ll be over.”

Dean’s hands move up to cup his face, the heat from them stifling. The Marks still burns. “I’m not letting you do this.”

Castiel smiles, leaning into the touch, wishing that Dean would kiss him.

He doesn’t, and time is running out.

“It’s not up to you, Dean.” He meets Mia’s eyes. She nods.

He finds the strength to move his arms, deep and boiling inside himself, pushing against the evil infecting his muscles. He clasps Dean’s arms and shoves, seeing the look of disbelief in his eyes before he screams.

“Mia now!”

With one pull, Mia brings the shelf down.

 

* * *

 

 

_Cas._

_Come on, man._

Castiel hears the voice and doesn’t think much of it.

_You gotta wake up._

It’s deep, male, familiar. It’s close, the vibration of it right next to his ear, the breath of it caressing his neck.

_I’ll mess everything up without you._

_Just open your eyes._

A smooth pair of lips presses to the skin there, and he leans into it. He could get used to having that voice so close to him. He settles for the arms that wrap around him, lifting him up, holding him close.  


	9. Epilogue

“Castiel? Castiel are you there?”

The voice is clear, despite the darkness pressing down on his eyes.

Castiel wakes up in the early evening, dust swirling above him in the warm sun. He wishes he could take a picture of the way it dances, realizing how bizarre the thought is a moment later. Something nags at him, a memory, or a dream, too dim to see. It slips through his fingers before his eyes are fully open.

“I _told_ him you were ok.”

A slight turn to the right, and Mia is there, sitting in the straight-backed chair beside the bed, one foot propped up on the frame.

She rests her chin to her knee, a small smile on her face.

“Mia,” he says, the clarity of his voice surprising him, “What happened?”

She shrugs. “I smashed the shelf.”

He sees it then, the way Mia’s eyes had been on fire as she pulled at the flimsy shelf, the jars toppling to the ground and exploding with white-hot heat. Light before the burn, agonizing in its intensity. Screams had ripped from him, overshadowed only by the inferno inside him as Gina Fraiser burned away from the surge of his grace--

“How do you feel?” Mia interrupts, setting her leg on the ground with a soft _thump_.

He sits up, taking stock of himself. He’s in the bedroom, wearing the same jeans and t-shirt he had passed out in. Dean must have set him on top of the covers. The duffel bag still sits on the floor, zipped shut now in contrast to the way it's contents had spilled out before. His clothes don’t stick to him from the heat in the room, and he feels for the wound on his back, finding only smooth skin there.

He feels clean. His lungs take clean gulps of oxygen, but it’s useless, only a habit. He rolls his neck back and forth, feeling the muscles stretch and relax with the motion without a trace of pain. Flexing his fingers brings a spark of electricity to the tips, just enough for him to feel.

Grace courses through him, and he had forgotten what it feels like.

“The demon?” he asks quietly.

“Gone. We checked you, and there’s no trace of her. Not even sulfur,” she explains.

“And Susan?”

“Asleep in the kitchen. She woke up right after, scared to death. Dean promised to get her a bus ticket. She won’t take a ride,” she adds.

Castiel nods, tensing at the thought of Dean. His eyes had shown black in the basement, and it's not an image he will forget soon.

“Are you an angel again?” Mia asks.

He doesn’t answer at first. He still doesn’t have wings.

“I don’t know. I certainly feel better,” he says with a small smile, wanting to reassure her.

She nods. “Good.”

He hears the front door slam, followed by footsteps, heavy and slow. After a few moments, Dean stands in the door, hands shoved in his pockets.

“You’re up.”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to check on Susan,” Mia says, pointedly getting up and leaving Dean awkwardly standing in the doorway.

“Got some color back in your face. S’good,” he says once she's gone, nodding once.

“Everything seems to be back to normal.” Castiel searches for the right words, knowing they don’t sound quite right.

“All juiced up then?” Dean asks, voice almost sounding sad.

“My grace is back to where I was before I came here, so yes.”

He doesn’t know how to explain to Dean that before he had been barely able to see his face, energy so dimmed by Gina’s ministrations, and that now he can count every freckle.

Dean sighs and runs a hand through his hair, taking Mia’s spot in the chair beside the bed. He appears to be grappling with a decision, keeping his face drawn and sad.

He clears his throat. “So, you remember everything?”

Castiel nods.

“Good,” Dean answers quickly, “That’s good.”

Castiel nods, feeling an awkward shift in the air. Dean taps his heel against the ground rapid but steady.

“I didn’t think it would work,” he says.

“What?”

Dean looks impatient. “You know what.”

Castiel pauses, looking down at his hands. “I didn’t know either. I was banking on a very slim chance.”

“And what was that?

“That I still had some grace left in me,” Castiel says, smiling in spite of himself, “Souls can only make an angel stronger, but in that capacity they’re deadly to demons.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “So the souls pumped you up again?”

“I’m not sure,” Castiel admits, “It’s not like it was before. I’m back to where I was. Gina’s been...toying with me for weeks now and playing off the cracks in my grace. There’s no telling what could happen next.”

Dean nods. “How long do you have?”

“No way to know.”

Dean exhales after a moment, sighing. A motorcycle speeds past the church outside, leaving the subtle tang of gasoline in the air.

“You gonna fall back asleep?” Dean asks.

“I don’t think so. Not now.”

“Good.” He stands, hands on his hips. “You can come help me flip the pews back over. They’re finally dry.”

 

* * *

 

They stay another day. Just to finish the lobby, and to install screens in the windows to keep the bugs out. Dean emphasizes the importance of these tasks and Castiel believes him.

When Susan wakes up, it’s almost midday and Castiel is washing his hands in the kitchen where she sleeps. She screams as soon as she sees him, eyes wide and glassy, and it takes soft words from Mia to calm her down enough to get a cup of coffee in her.

“I’m sorry." she finally says, voice raw with misuse. Gina’s voice had been significantly higher than hers.

“Don’t be,” Castiel says, leaning back against the sink, giving her space.

She stirs her spoon around, seeming to enjoy the warmth and smell of the coffee more than the taste. “She told me-- she told me lies about you. That you were the reason that she had possessed me, that you forced her. When we got here, and I saw you, I didn’t know if I believed it anymore. I guess I just wanted out no matter what.”

“None of this was your fault, Susan,” Mia says.

Susan shakes her head, swallowing hard. “I remember all of it. The blood. Those-- dogs. Making the deals, and the whole time I fought against it. The only time I broke through was to talk to you.” She looks at Castiel.

He nods. “I heard you. At least, I heard a voice fighting against Gina, whenever she was in my head.”

She finally takes a sip of coffee, grimacing. “The pain was indescribable. The only way to stay sane was to keep talking. Keep annoying her, at least. All because I said yes.”

Castiel shakes his head. “No, Susan. She would have posessed you even if you said no. Demons take what they want, Gina was just cruel enough to make you feel like _any_ of this was your fault.”

She laughs darkly, disbelieving, and Castiel feels at a loss for words. Dean chooses that moment to reappear through the door, bags of takeout in his hands. They set up plates and cups at the table, but Castiel stays against the sink, arms folded over his chest. Dean offers him some out of politeness, but he refuses, his appetite gone. He keeps his distance, letting Susan eat in relative peace.

 

* * *

 

Susan takes an early bus the next morning, foregoing all goodbyes. Castiel doesn’t blame her, and looks forward to seeing the headlines of her reappearance.

They plan to leave the day after, and Mia comes to say goodbye. She doesn’t come alone.

Castiel enters the sanctuary to see Christian Rivera pacing down the aisle, looking the room up and down with a shocked expression. Mia sits in a pew, using a hymnal to write something on the piece of scrap paper. She smirks without looking up.

“How--?” My. Rivera starts, before seeing Castiel.

“Hello,” Castiel says, trying to catch his attention.

Mr. Rivera straightens when he sees him, the awe on his face fading to something stern. “My niece says you and your partner have been fixing up the church.”

“With valuable assistance from Mia, yes,” Castiel says, approaching cautiously. He makes eye contact with Mia and she just shrugs, looking back down at her book.

Rivera smiles, however, and his shoulders relax. “Good vacation time over at the FBI, I imagine?”

It takes Castiel a moment to understand, and he stumbles on the reply. “Yes. Of course-- Very… fair.”

The words sound stupid even to himself, and he’s glad when Dean takes that moment to emerge, carrying a broom and a large dust-pan. He sets them down when he sees the preacher, brushing his hands off on his jeans.

“Good to see you again, Sir,” he says sticking out his hand for Rivera to shake.

He takes it, but lets go quickly. Mia’s eyes flick up to watch them.

“You fix up these pews yourself?” he asks Dean.

“Yes sir,” Dean says, gesturing to the gleaming benches with pride. “Just needed a little elbow grease."

“Yup,” Rivera says, “I figure I could sell them to an antique peddler, get some kind of deal.”

Dean’s shoulders slump, but his smile stays in place. “I reckon you could.”

“Uncle,” Mia says, her voice spelling out a warning.

“Alright!” Rivera looks down, swinging his arms against the side of his leg. “Mia thinks I should reopen the Church, now that you guys fixed it up so nice.”

Castiel looks around, shocked by what he notices. The room is clean and tidy, free from clutter and garbage. Light shows through the stained-glass, painting colorful pictures all over the walls and ceilings. The floor shines like glass after a deep cleaning, and the altar looks respectful to God again.

“What do you say?” Castiel finally asks the preacher.

He shrugs. “I guess we could open up for one more service, have a memorial for all the people who have died.”

Castiel looks at Dean.

“Sounds like a good idea,” Dean says.

They stand in silence before Mia stands up, her dress a light shade of blue today. Castiel notes the way she carries herself taller, and the way her shoulders relax just enough. She beckons for him to follow her into the lobby, leaving Dean and the Pastor alone to discuss the paint job.

She turns to stand in front of Castiel, resting her hands on her hips.

“Mia,” he starts, scratching the back of his neck, “There’s something I wanted to tell you, before I go.”

She tilts her head, waiting. Castiel doesn’t know if it’s right, or fair, but he knows that Mia deserves the truth.

“Gina sent me dreams, memories really, of when she was here. Making deals. The last one sent me was of your father right before he died.”

She purses her lips, eyes hard. “And?”

“You should know that he was protecting you. She wanted you brought to her willingly, ready to give your-- your soul, and he wouldn’t have it. He asked for more time,” he says, pausing to give her a moment, “It doesn’t cancel out everything he did to you. Don’t think that. I just thought you deserved to know the truth.

Mia looks down, smoothing down the wrinkles in her dress. He sees the shine in her eyes, there one minute, gone the next.

“I’m going to miss you,” _but it’s time for you to go,_ she says silently, without hostility. It’s a fact, and Castiel can feel it in the way his grace sparks under his skin.

“Same to you,” he says, knowing it’s enough. Has to be enough.

She smiles, reaching into her bag once and pulling out a folded up piece of paper. She slips it into his hand before walking back to her Uncle, tugging on his shoulder.

She smiles at Dean. He returns it, and they pass by Castiel once again before they’re gone, the door slamming and rattling behind them.

 

* * *

 

It takes Castiel only minutes to pack, given that his possessions are so few. He changes out of Dean’s old clothes, folding them and carefully placing them in the duffel. He takes a moment to properly arrange himself again, putting on the suit that harkened back to Jimmy Novak and draping his trench coat over his arm, despite being insensitive to the heat. The keys to his car are still in the pocket, along with his replaced angel blade. He thinks about taking the small amount of toiletries Dean had bought for him, but leaves them behind when the time comes to leave.

“Ready?” Dean asks him, duffel thrown over his shoulder and the keys to the Impala already between his fingers.

Castiel looks around, from the recently dusted rafters to the sparkling stained glass windows. Some of Mia’s paintings are finished, while others look as if they need a little more work. He wonders if it was all for nothing.

He swipes the hymnal with Mia’s handwriting in it, tucking her letter between the pages. He suspects no one will miss it.

They turn the lights off before they leave, and they lock the heavy padlock around the push bars. The church sits brooding from Castiel’s view out the Impala parking lot, but slightly less threatening without the weight of the souls. More like a shell.

Dean turns out of the parking lot and heads towards country, not going back through the town.

 

* * *

 

When night comes, Dean pulls into a hotel without explanation, paying for a room before Castiel can even get out of the car.

“Dean?”

“Just gimme a minute.”

Castiel stays silent as requested, and Dean doesn’t look him in the eye until the proprietor hands him the key. His eyes are dark and focused, and he takes hold of Castiel’s wrist, pulling him behind him.

Once they’re inside the room Castiel feels strange, as if he were too big for the cramped space. It’s similar to every motel room he’s ever seen, and yet his hands feel clumsy by his sides, and his throat constricts in the stale air, despite not needing it.

Dean turns to him, depositing his bag on the ground and swearing softly under his breath before catching his eyes. He couldn’t say who moves first, but Dean is certainly strong, or maybe Castiel just likes the feeling of his back hitting the door; the way the hinges rattle when Dean pins his wrist above them before bringing their lips together, his breath singeing the corners of Castiel’s mouth.

Dean slots their mouths together, tongues sliding together sooner than before and Castiel hears breathy moans, his own and Dean’s, vibrating to his core. Their hips slide together and their noses bump but Castiel only wants to get closer, leaning into every touch as Dean uses his free hand to stroke at Castiel’s neck, tilting his head to mouth at the skin there, speaking breathlessly after each kiss.

“Where’s your car?”

He releases Castiel’s wrist, his hand finding its way under his shirt.

“Missouri.”

Dean nods, his hair brushing against Castiel’s neck. “I’ll take you there.”

Castiel pulls him up, taking fistfuls of his shirt to make up for the _And then we’ll go separate ways_ that lingers unsaid in the air. Castiel doesn’t tell him that two and a half dozen angels also wait for him there, looking to him to give their lives purpose. He pushes their lips together, not wanting to talk anymore, not wanting to share anything else for Dean to take with him when he leaves.

Dean doesn’t speak again. He pushes Castiel onto the bed, crawling over him and straddling his hips before removing their clothing, piece by piece. Castiel doesn’t know how to deny him, how to not hold him close to his chest as their hips grind together, a slow slide that keeps Dean shaking and moaning his name low in his ear. He presses his hands to his back and lets go, taking handfuls of him, knowing he’s not his keep.

Dean falls asleep shortly after, tired and sated and smelling like himself, if only with a tinge of sulfur. Castiel strokes a hand over Dean’s chest, damp from where he had quietly cleaned him with a washcloth.

The charm would wear off, and Dean would be consumed with fire. It was only a matter of time, and Castiel hadn’t needed Gina Frasier to tell him that. He watches him, the quiet of his sleep.

He misses feeling tired.

Dean sleeps despite the lumpiness in the hotel mattress, and Castiel leaves the bed as gently as possible, not wanting to wake him up.

He wanders. The motel sits in a patch of three or four gas station and convenience stores set up for truck drivers, but no real town. No diner. No church.

His power fades, even without Gina’s grip. He could light a match with his fingertips but doesn’t think he could sustain it. The grace is still ill fitting and it chafes against his vessel, filling him wrong, making him feel bloated and ungainly.

The stars are clear, however, with the help of his grace. He leans against the Impala, feeling solidity amongst the unknown.

 

* * *

 

 

Castiel had doubted that his car would still be there, waiting for him in the Walmart parking lot without any disturbance.

“Looks like you got your ride back,” Dean says, leaning against the Impala with his arms crossed over his chest, eyes squinting against the sun.

“I hope I have gas,” Castiel says, turning to him, smirking.

Dean huffs out a laugh, more of an exhalation that anything audible. “I can spot you, this one time.”

The key turns and the car roars to life, a half tank full, rendering Dean’s request unnecessary.

“Look at that,” he says, “You’re all set.”

Castiel smiles, one foot in the car, one on the pavement. “I’m lucky,” he says, trying to hide meaning in his words, knowing they’re falling short of what needs to be said.

Dean swallows, one hand resting against the door, the Mark standing out against his skin. “Gonna be headed our way again soon?” he asks.

The sun peeks over the horizon, dull in the morning haze. Castiel feels a new pull, benevolent in nature this time. Angels.

“I don’t know,” he answers, the only truth he has to give.

Dean nods, backing up to shut the door as Castiel swings his other leg into the car, creating a barrier between them, save for the rolled down window.

“I’ll be seeing you, one way or another, I’m sure,” Dean says, leaning down to look through the window.

Castiel rests his arm on the window. “Dean?”

Dean raises his eyebrows, signifying for him to continue.

“You should tell Sam.”

“Tell Sam what?”

“About what’s happening to you.”

Dean’s silent for a moment, looking down at his feet. Castiel waits for anger, or a snide comment.

“Yeah. Probably should,” he says finally.

Castiel knows it’s a lie, but the sentiment is there.

“Drive safe.” Dean says after a moment, “I’m headed in the other direction.”

Castiel nods. Dean's hand fidgets by his side, rising and falling before he decides to let it rest on Castiel's upper arm. A fleeting touch, and then Dean turns his back to him, getting into the Impala and turning towards the highway.

He grips the steering wheel, putting the car into gear and heading towards the town. He can already hear the jabbering of angels in the distance.

 

* * *

 

 

Hannah had handled everything well in his absence, setting up a base for the few angels with her and reaching out to more, sending out a message that there’s a home here, if they want it.

He stands outside, watching the night sky and contemplating a course of action when he hears the rustling of paper in his pocket. He pulls out Mia’s letter, folded into a triangle with his name on it in small print. He had removed it earlier, stowing the hymnal in the bedroom given to him by the angels.

He reads slowly to himself, hearing her voice.

 

_Castiel,_

_The Church isn’t finished. I still need to paint above the altar. I’d been lying when I said I had half-formed ideas. I really only have one: Mary, mother of Jesus, even though I know people here aren’t too keen on her. I can change that, though. My mother was Catholic, did I tell you that?_

_I’m also going to clean out the basement, and sweep up all the broken glass from the jars._

_I want to ask you to stay and help, hold the ladder and such, but you have to go. I saw you staring at that trench coat again, as if you’re going to suit up and be the FBI again. Agent. I have to be someone else too now. Someone better, hopefully_

_I hope you find being an angel again agreeable, if not a bit redundant. I hope you use it to take care of Dean, and don’t let him out of your sight, if you can help it._

_I wanted to say this to you in person, but writing has always been more natural for me. I hope you don’t still feel guilty over what happened here, because I never blamed you. I blame evil, and power, and whatever it is that makes me and you so human, no matter what species we are. It’s over now, and Colton feels lighter, somehow._

_I’m going to miss you, but I’m thankful that I’ve made some good memories again. It’s been a long time._

 

_Your Friend,_

_Mia Rivera_

 

_P.S. I’m moving back into my apartment. Thank you for changing the furniture around, it works much better that way._

 

Castiel smiles, his throat thick. Behind the doorway, there’s the sharp sound of glass breaking, sparking up the laughter of angels. Despite their pious restraint, it still sounds joyous.

He takes a deep breath, the air spiraling into his lungs. Useless, but needed.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to connect with me on my [Tumblr](http://destielpasta.tumblr.com/), and thank you for reading my story. Comments are always cherished and appreciated.


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